


The Blood Must Flow

by harleygirl2648



Series: If There's a Light at the End, It's Just the Sun in Your Eyes [1]
Category: American Gods (TV), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Cigarettes, Coughing, Dark Will Graham, Drinking, F/M, Fire, Genderfluid, Guns, Hallucinations, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Lost Love, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Nightmares, Original Character Death(s), Pomegranates, Revenge, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Vomiting, because gods don't have specific genders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-11-15 00:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11219766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harleygirl2648/pseuds/harleygirl2648
Summary: “Real magic can never be made by offering someone else's liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back.”― Peter S. Beagle, The Last UnicornAU: Shadow and Wednesday are driving through Maryland when Wednesday wants to visit an old friend who doesn't remember him or even remember who he truly is. Death is all-consuming, and has resorted to reaping souls to consume on his own, and has almost completely forgotten about his other half, and the taste of pomegranates on their lips and blood on their teeth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Woo, so this is my fic for a Hannibal/American Gods crossover! This is a long time coming, so much research and maladaptive daydreaming and Lana del Rey and southern gothic music. We're looking at potentially eight or so chapters here, it's a slow burner. But I hope you enjoy this beginning 'Coming to America' segment!
> 
> Title comes from this snippet from American Gods by Neil Gaiman:
> 
> _“It is only a gesture,” he said, turning back to Shadow. “But gestures mean everything. The death of one dog symbolizes the death of all dogs. Nine men they gave to me, but they stood for all the men, all the blood, all the power. It just wasn’t enough. One day, the blood stopped flowing. Belief without blood only takes us so far. The blood must flow.”_
> 
> _“I saw you die,” said Shadow._
> 
> _“In the god business,” said the figure—and now Shadow was certain it was Wednesday, nobody else had that rasp, that deep cynical joy in words, “it’s not the death that matters. It’s the opportunity for resurrection. And when the blood flows . . .”_

_**Coming to America - 1894** _

 

Sometimes all it takes is one person to believe. One person can bring the entire world to their knees. I am reminded of the tale of Phoebe Carras, who had a long journey before her peaceful life settling in her restaurant in Astoria, Queens, in the Big Apple itself.

 ***

Now, the story of Phoebe begins when she was only sixteen, and her arrival in Ellis Island with her father, Nikolas. It was just the two of them, as back in Greece, for that was home for the both of them, her mother and baby twin brother and sister remained, as there was only enough for her and her father to immigrate. The economy had gone stagnant back at home, and Nikolas had convinced the rest of his family that he and Phoebe would get better jobs and be able to pay for their journey across the Atlantic. Phoebe had been so excited, but nervous at the same time. One of Father’s friends, who had since gone all the way to California, had told them in a letter that they would require you to read the 23rd Psalm in English. If you couldn’t speak English, you were turned away. She had heard that America was meant to be a melting pot, but how could it be mixed when all the ingredients had to have a similar base? Why did she have to change her culture in order to fit into this new place? It would be like creating a stew that only included potatoes and water. Nothing to spice up the mix.

She pondered all of these thoughts, and felt her heart seized up in her chest when the Ellis Island guard with the little beady eyes that stared at her in ways that made her sick shoved an English Bible in her face and told her to read.

Phoebe’s fingers wrapped around the silver cross pendant that dangled from her neck and said the words, even as they felt wrong and funny-shaped in her mouth:

 

 

_The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want._  
_He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters._  
_He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake._  
_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me._  
_Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over._  
_Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever._

 

She finished with as big a smile as she could muster, and he just grunted in return before he stamped her entry pass and let her join her side by her father and take her first steps into New York. With joy and excitement, she clutched his hand tightly and kept an even tighter grip on the little suitcase that had all of their valuables from home, and they maneuvered through the streets and the mobs of people, and looked forward to blending into this new country. It was as though home in Greece was a lifetime away, and there was a whole new life before them.

In their new, small, dirty apartment (the kind of dirt that can’t be scrubbed out even if your fingers go raw trying), Phoebe used the ingredients in their first shopping trip in America to make _psarosoupa,_ gutting and cleaning the fish as her father chopped the potatoes and carrots and even a zucchini that they had splurged on. With a glass of the good wine they had brought from home, they toasted their new life together and enjoyed a hot meal as they watched the hustle and bustle of the city, even as it grew late in the night. Nikolas insisted that his daughter take the only bed in the apartment while he slept on old woolen blankets on the hard wooden floor, and Phoebe looked up at the water stain on the ceiling and silently thanked God for giving them this opportunity to make their own way. Even if she missed the clear blue waves that lapped at the beaches; even if here in New York, the water was grimy and shiny like candle oil; even if there were no rolling fields of flowers to play and dance in, and get grass between your toes and daisies in your hair. It was still good. She would make this her home.

Phoebe and Nikolas took jobs at the nearby textile factory, where they worked creating fine garments that they could never hope to afford for twelve hours a day. Nikolas weaved the cloth, and Phoebe sewed on button after button on shirts, blouses, pants, even a few skirts. Her finger was constantly pricked over and over but God forbid she get blood on her work, or her pay would be docked. The work was hard and unyielding, and their boss held no pity in his heart except for the cries of a dollar, but they were together, and while they were not quite happy, they were content.

And so, for an entire four months of constant work except for Sundays off, this was their life. Monotonous, exhausting, but stable. Stability is better than chaos.

Until one fateful day, when one of the spinning girls ran screaming through the floor where Phoebe worked, warning of a fire that had started in the weaving room upstairs, and was spreading quickly. Phoebe was numb with fear, even as the heat of the flames came closer, for her father was upstairs, and all she could think to do was help him, find him. But the mob of the crowd was intense and almost as hot as the fire itself, and she felt for a moment like those burned offerings her Yaya had told her about back in the ancient times. She was being pushed and squeezed and felt like ingredients in a pot that was boiling over, running over the sides as she was pressed up close with several others against the tiny window that was one of the worker’s only way into the outside world, when suddenly, her stability was gone.

There was a shattering of glass and screams of terror, but Phoebe’s mouth couldn’t even muster the energy to open. Instead, she bit her lip so hard that it bled as she fell from the second story window, thinking through the Lord’s Prayer in her native Greek.

She didn’t die, however. But death to her would have been preferable to the crunch of her landing. One of the Polish girls that was always giggling about a joke she had heard and sometimes shared a bit of pastry she had made back at home broke her. She didn’t stir beneath Phoebe, and Phoebe was too paralyzed with sheer horror to move herself. There were other girls under her, she didn’t know their names. She doubted anyone did. It wasn’t until volunteers picked her up with the intention of carting her away with the rest of the dead and she thrashed and finally screamed. They let her go, and she hurried over to where the survivors were huddled and shaking in fear and relief. Her father was not among them, and when she looked up at the third floor, it was nothing but flames.

He never came out, alive or dead, and Phoebe sat and waited long into the night for any sight of him, to no avail. Seeing that he would never receive a proper burial, she untied the scarf that she used to keep her hair getting snagged into a piece of equipment, and gathered two handfuls of ash and wrapped it tightly before she headed home.

She then undid the scarf again and carefully swept every bit of ash into the nicest scarf she owned. Then she added a picture of their family and his crucifix, and after deliberating a bit, she opened their chest of meager treasures and removed two of the three drachmas they had brought back from Greece. Her Yaya had made it very clear when she was alive that she was to be buried with two of them on her eyelids, “lest I never cross the Styx.” Yaya had been involved in the Orthodox Church like the rest of them, but her side of the family had always kept up with their ancient roots. Phoebe had followed her wishes, even if the priest had scolded her and said that was pagan, and wrong.

That night, she cried herself to sleep, the autumn wind howling and beating in time with her broken heart as it scratched at the window.

Phoebe buried her father at Sheep Meadow at what would later become Central Park. She recited Psalm 23 in Greek by his graveside, and stayed there most of the day, debating what she should do. Should she write to her mother and tell her that she would be returning home because she couldn’t support herself and the rest of the family on her own, or tell them that she would be staying here, and try to make it on her own, and hopefully bring them here in the future? She didn’t know. She was lost.

 Phoebe stayed after work the next day because, yes, she had to work immediately after her few friends and father had been lost in the blaze. It was like working inside of an oven that was currently being cleaned, all the burned remains scraped off the sides as though nothing had ever happened. She went to her boss’ office after the day was done, and mustered enough courage to ask him about the insurance payment she was entitled to after his death. It would be the only way she could afford her rent and eat, at least for a few months. He laughed her face, his tobacco-stained teeth hideous to behold, and his breath that smelled like meat as he leaned in close and offered a different form of payment. She reacted first and slapped him, startling both him and herself with her sudden strength. He sneered down at her, ripping up her contract and telling her that tomorrow would be her last day here. He slammed the door in her face and she ran out into the street, her tears flowing freely and mixing with the downpour that followed her all the way home. She knew that he had caused the fire with the unsafe conditions and overcrowding, and the fire escapes were too narrow. But there was nothing she could do. She was helpless. With some of her last paycheck, she bought half a duck and one orange. With some spices at home, it would be a good meal before she accepted canned sardines and stale bread for the rest of her time here until she got another job.

The duck was seasoned with the last pinch of rosemary she had and the squeeze of a fresh orange, and she placed it into a pan and closed it up in the oven, letting the smell wash over her. And it smelled a little like home, with the duck and the rosemary, but they could never afford oranges back in Greece, so it was a dash of her new home. The anger was bubbling inside of her, so much she could have burst. Her prayers were useless, God wasn’t listening. So she took matters into her own hands, with the method Yaya had mentioned her own Yaya using to send away a scorned lover.

_“For you see, my child,” Yaya said, stirring a pot of soup as little Phoebe, aged six, sipped at a cup of tea. “You can’t make a curse tablet to Hades. You can't reckon, bargain, or argue with death. He is unmoving.”_

_“But You told me that Thanatos is death, not Hades, Yaya.”_

_“That he is. But Hades is the richest god of them all. Do you know why?”_

_“All the jewels of the world come from the ground, and they belong to him?”_

_Yaya smiled as she nodded and added a touch of dill to the tzatziki. “Yes, that is true. But he is rich in souls, as he collects all who die, and they belong to him. But he is merely a collector of souls, he does not inflict death or even give out the harshest punishments. That, my dear, is Persephone."_

_Phoebe gasped a little, making Yaya laugh. “Yes, my child, you have been taught to believe that Persephone is merely the queen of death, tricked into staying, but think: anyone who eats exactly six pomegranate seeds knows what they are doing. Hades made her the keeper of the Furies, so curses are to be invoked in her name, for she is as ever changing between the light and the dark, and she can be reasoned with. Now, come taste this soup.”_

 

_If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell. -Virgil_

 

The oldest saucepan she had had melted down the last drachma she had, and with a hammer she had borrowed from her neighbor to fix their floorboards, she hammered it into as flat a shape as possible. With her sturdiest darning needle, she wrote an inscription into the melted metal.

_Το Persephone, εξαπολύει τις μοίρες επάνω στο γείτονά μου, γιατί έχει δολοφονήσει τον πατέρα μου. Μάιος τα κόκκαλά του δεν βάζει ποτέ σε στάση._

After it hardened, she pricked her finger with the needle and traced over the letters, the blood filling in each little divot. There was no good, rich, earth in New York City to bury it in, and she didn’t like to leave her apartment after dark, so she improvised. She took some of the good dirt from the bag in the corner (she was trying to grow flowers in pots to make the place more cheerful) and packed it into a neat ball around her little tablet. Then she took her offering outside, just off the side of the steps, and buried it into the old well that her landlord would never fix or get rid off. She stared down and watched as the ball sank all the way to the bottom, the dirt making the still water even murkier, and caught one last glimpse of the shiny material before it faded away.

A sudden honk from a nearby automobile startled her out of her reverie, and she looked up to see a couple standing by their car, watching as her neighbor Alexander tried to restart their engine. One was tall, in a black suit like an undertaker, black hat on his black hair, and if it got just a bit darker outside, he would easily blend into the night. His partner had soft, flouncy brunette curls and a dark purple dress that cut off at knees, and had a bouquet of lilies in one hand, and a parasol not doing much to save them from the rain. Seeing this couple in distress, her instinctive sense of hospitality kicked in. She stood up, brushing her wet hair out of her face and hurried over to them.

“It’s too cold to be out in the rain,” she said in her best English. “Please, come in and dry off.”

She almost flinched at the severe look in the the taller person's eyes (he was a man, she could see him now,) but the soft brown eyes of the other (a woman) put her at peace. She cocked her head and smiled, before saying back in perfect Greek, “Thank you so much.” She squeezed her husband’s hand, and then said, “Forgive him, he’s more the strong, silent type. Please, show us the way.”

Alexander spoke in Greek, as well, telling them that he’d have this fixed in no time. And Phoebe felt more relaxed than she had since moving to America, being comfortable in her own language.

She led the couple up the stairs to her cramped, meager apartment, and felt a bit of shame that it was far below the living standards she supposed they were used to. But she gave them the only two chairs she had and quickly gave them generous servings of her meager duck dish.

“I’m sorry it’s not much,” she said, hurriedly cleaning her only two forks, deciding that she could eat with a spoon. “But it’s - it’s what I have.” She sliced her remaining loaf of rye bread and gave them each a piece.

The man took a bite and then finally spoke, declaring in a voice that was smoky and quiet, “This is delicious.”

Phoebe sat on a blanket on the ground, insisting that her guests remain in their chairs at the table, and smiled a little as she blushed. “Thank you.”

Dinner was very quiet, only the sounds of silverware clinking against the plates and glasses of wine being picked up and set back down. It was quiet and relaxing, and she gave them the last pieces of the baklava she and her father had made but a few days before. As Phoebe stood to clear the plates and begin cleaning the room, a hand rested on her shoulder, and she was enveloped in the smell of lavender and vanilla. She looked up into the face of the woman, who smiled at her.

“Thank you,” she said. That was all she said: she did not offer her name, or her lover's, but thanked her and left her through the door, her husband following after saying a simple, “Thank you. Goodbye.”

The bouquet of dripping lilies were left on her table, and she transferred them to an old, chipped vase she had found on the street one day. But when she looked out the window, the car and the couple were gone.

As she slept that night, her daisy plant bloomed in its pot.

 

Phoebe sewed her last button of the day and of her job promptly at six o’clock the next evening, and stood up, ready to leave. She wasn’t going to beg to keep this terrible job in this deathtrap of a place, but then she shrank back when her boss and the foreman passed by. Her boss made a sneer in her direction, and tried to make a pass at her. She refused his advances yet again, and as he berated her in front of everyone, she noticed three hideous birds flying in a circle in the window behind her boss. She kept thinking dark thoughts to try to get him to stop and let her leave, and flinched when he leaned forward, only to rest his hand on the equipment.

The next thing she heard was a crunch, and she focused her attention to her boss's arm, and then the rest of his body, being swallowed up into the machine amidst his cries for help. The foreman grabbed her arm amidst the chaos of the screaming of the crowd (though she swore that she heard the cackling of three old women) and demanded to know what she did, that she would be arrested and never see the light of day again, but she managed to pull away and run down the stairs to escape. He was fast, breathing down her neck, and she ran right into the street, tripping on the curbside and falling to the ground. She braced herself for the smooth, oily hand of the foreman to grab her by the back of the blouse, but then she heard yet another crunch and the scream of passerby and the tires of an automobile.

“Are you alright?”

A hand had appeared before her, its palm extended in a gesture of help. She accepted, looking up into the face of a man with a gentle, warm smile, but his eyes gleaming with... _something._  He helped her to her feet, smoothing hair from her face before walking away, over to a bench where a woman in an all-black gown like she was going to a dance or funeral, with a black parasol and veil covering her face. The man who had helped her was in a pastel suit had a lily in his buttonhole, and leaned down to kiss his lover. Phoebe turned around to see the foreman dead in the road from being struck in an automobile. The murmurings of the crowd told her that a bird landed in the road and caused confusion so the driver had struck the foreman, causing him to fall and snap his neck. Phoebe noticed the three birds from earlier perched at the top of the crashed car, leaning towards the corpse with interest, and nothing was shaking them away. Until suddenly, she heard a low whistle and the birds flew away to land in the tree beside the couple from earlier, who sat watching the scene with an appearance of total calm, holding hands as a flower bloomed beside them, as another group of autumn leaves blowing in the wind.

Phoebe blinked, ready to go over and ask if they were the same couple she had shared her dinner with, but they were gone when she opened her eyes again.

 

After the plant received a new foreman and boss, Phoebe received a letter that told her that it was urgent for her to visit at once. When she arrived, the new boss told her that her father’s policy was to pay double in case something happened to him, and she had never gotten it. It was more money than she had ever seen at once, and she thanked him profusely and promptly skipped all the way home.

“You’re in a good mood,” Alexander said to her with a smile, as she returned the hammer she had borrowed. “I haven’t _ever_ seen you in such a good mood, come to think of it.”

She smiled at him. “God is great.”

And left him a whole five dollars as a thank you for all the help he had provided her these past four months. When she stepped back into her apartment, she was overcome with every single flower she had planted in various pots blooming at once. It was September, and she finally felt like it was home, even if the heating in her building was terrible.

 

Phoebe’s life was mostly uneventful from then on out. She took a good half of the money and sent it to the rest of her family to join her in America, and took the rest and set up a little food stand on the street, selling kebabs and salads. From there, that business grew enough that she could buy a restaurant. She named it after herself, and there was a plaque on the inside that dedicated it to the memory of her father, and she decorated the place in a dark purple and vases of clear glass with lavender and lilies. It was only after she had achieved this level of success that she finally agreed to marry Alexander, and they had two children, Nicholas and Kore. Their life had ups and downs, hardships and good times, and Alexander never questioned during their hardest times when she would prick her finger and squeeze blood into a flowerpot of good dirt and pour a little wine into it. 

Phoebe had outlived her brother and her sister, and finally her husband, before she fell ill at the age of seventy-nine. The cancer was in her lungs, and was spreading quickly. But she wasn’t afraid, she told her family over and over. Death was not something to be afraid of, she had lived her life, and she was content. Even happy.

One night, on the spring equinox, she closed her eyes as she fiddled with two little drachmas in her right hand (her son was an avid coin collector) and opened them to find herself cold, and floating, bobbing up and down on a boat. Not the big boat she came to America on, no, like a rowboat.

“Who are you?” she asked the boatman politely, but he offered no response. They sat in silence until they reached the shore, and the cloaked boatman extended a hand. She looked at the skeletal hand and placed the two drachmas into it. The figure then gestured at the dark river around them.

“Drink.”

Not wanting to offend him, Phoebe reached down and cupped a little water in her hand before a familiar voice rang out. “No.”

It was the smell of lavender and vanilla, and a warm day, and then a gentle, yet strong hand pulling her to her feet and off of the boat to get onto the cold sand of the shore. “If you drink that, you will not remember. I want you to remember. You were the first to invoke me in New York, and you let us into your home and fed us.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Phoebe said.

“It was. I am sorry to take you without much warning, but this is my last day here for six more months, and I wanted to guide you to your place before I go take another.”

And suddenly, from where they were walking, the entire place lit up with sunshine, and Phoebe was in a field of yellow daisies and green grass, and the sounds of the sea and her parents and siblings and husband laughing by the shore.

“The Elysian Fields,” Phoebe breathed out, instinctively touching her neck for the crucifix that had always rested there. It was gone.

She turned to thank the one leading her, but they had vanished. She looked out over the land, and twirled and danced on the wind that swept around her, seeing as she was sixteen years young again, and laughed with joy as she finally rejoined her family.

 

Kore’s husband Philip set the syringe down on his mother-in-law’s bedside table, and got up to leave. It would be a few hours before the rest of the family returned home, he was safe. The will already had his name on it.

But as he headed out the front door, three hideous birds were perched on the hood of his car. As though given a signal, they all suddenly flew at him, biting and clawing and scratching with their talons. He ran into the road to get away from them, and it was then he saw two figures, one in black, one in purple, holding hands on the bench in front of Central Park with three dogs at their feet. The one in purple’s lips were blood-red, in a devious smile, while the one in black's smile had a soft fondness to it.

It was then he heard the blare of a truck horn.

 

 

 _Gods can never truly die unless everyone forgets that they ever existed. Only then is the candle snuffed out for good._  
  
_Even though the gods cannot die, sometimes the pieces get scattered and lost along the way._

 _They can inherit another form, live their human lives and then swiftly move along to the next one. Sometimes the only way to survive is to evolve._  
  
_Adapt, evolve, become._  
  
_You are what you worship, after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this intro! This was so much fun to write, I really got to play with history and mythology. And I promise, we'll see Shadow and Wednesday and Hannibal and Will soon! (And maybe Laura)
> 
> (oh, and by the way, I know Hades and Persephone are genderfluid in this, but I do use male and female pronouns as I'm writing through the eyes of Phoebe, who is thinking in just male/female, except at the end, where I tried to keep it gender neutral. If this makes you uncomfortable, however, let me know and I can totally swap pronouns. Thank you in advance!)
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadow and Wednesday go driving, Mr. Nancy starts telling another story, and someone gets visit from Morticia Addams.

“Where are we going now?” Shadow asked, knowing that the question was fruitless. Wednesday tapped his fingernail on the side of the steering wheel as they weaved through the backstreets of Maryland, just on the outskirts of Baltimore. The pines were steadfast and numerous, and it was easy to see how one could become lost in the woods. That’s what had happened to Patrick Hawkins, according to the paper Wednesday had picked up when they stopped at a diner for a quick bite. Shadow fiddled with the coffee-stained corner as he read on a little further. Apparently he had been found completely hollowed out, and cypress bloomed from where he had begun to rot into the ground. It was almost beautiful, in a twisted sort of way, like so much of what Shadow had seen after getting out of prison. 

“We’re going to see an old acquaintance,” Wednesday answered, apparently having taken more than two minutes to actually answer the damn question. 

“Am I going to like him?” Shadow asked. Usually everyone Wednesday had dragged him to meet treated him like gum stuck to the bottom of their shoes. Wednesday’s good eye sparkled. 

“I don’t care for him, myself,” he chuckled, more to himself than to Shadow. “But rest assured, he more than likely does not remember me.” 

“Because that’s reassuring,” Shadow said, rolling his eyes. “Why are we going to see him if he doesn’t remember you?”

Wednesday just stared off into the distance, but not getting far into the horizon before the pines blocked his vision. “I’m hoping to jog his memory.” 

A dead leaf landed on the windshield, right in front of Shadow’s eyes. It was spread completely wide, displaying its bright red color, before it floated away on the breeze. 

“Funny, autumn,” Wednesday remarked. “You like the fall?” 

Shadow shrugged. He’d never given much thought to it before. “Yeah, I like it. All the colors, the air gets a little colder. It’s nice, a nice change of pace.” 

“Autumn means that the world is dying,” Wednesday said, craning his neck until he sighed in relief when he felt the tension. “All those pretty colors, that nice cool air? It’s death, a beautiful, beautiful death of the world.” 

“But it gets reborn in the spring,” Shadow argued. 

“How do you suppose death feels in the spring?” Wednesday argued right back. “Autumn is the bridge between life and death, between the light and the darkness, and spring means death loses its grip on the world a little.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” 

“Death is as much a part of life as anything else. It existed at the beginning of time and will exist until the end of time.” 

“Does death have a face?” Shadow asked, adjusting himself in the seat, trying to get comfortable. They’d been driving for hours. 

“If so, everyone sees a different face when they pray,” Wednesday said. “There’s a different person to take them away when their time has come. And aren’t autumn and spring almost the same, except for death and life? Those days when it’s warm enough to relax in shorts in November, and when it’s cold enough to snow in April, those are the days of flight and fancy. Of indecision, longing. There’s gotta be something connected between autumn and spring, don’t you think?” 

Shadow shrugged. He couldn’t think of an argument to counteract Wednesday’s, and instead looked out the window as the crisp leaves fluttered on the winds through the woods. He wondered, where all of these dead leaves came from in the midst of all of these pines. 

They drove in silence for a while longer, and Shadow closed his eyes and remembered the story Mr. Nancy had told as they had stayed for a dinner of plantains and rice. He remembered how Nancy had scoffed at the idea of most of the Greek myths.

 

_“Hardly any of ‘em real heroes, the selfish pricks. Take Oedipus, the literal motherfucker, how the hell he get named a hero? He solves a riddle, becomes a motherfucker, pokes his eyes out because he can’t live with himself, and dies a beggar. What a fuckin’ hero.”_

_“He’s a tragic hero,” Shadow said, reaching for his coffee cup. “Doesn’t that count?”_

_“It’s a shitty fucking hero, Shadow. At least die for something you believe, don’t lie there in your shame and let it consume you. You want a Greek tragedy, I’ll fucking tell you one. You know ‘about Hades and Persephone?”_

_“Yeah,” Shadow nodded. “He kidnapped her, she ate a few seeds, she’s stuck there for half a year, that’s where winter comes from.”_

_Nancy threw his head back and laughed before focusing his eyes back on Shadow. “That’s what that story has devolved too, ain’t it? First off, Persephone wasn’t kidnapped. She went willingly, because she needed that balance between light and dark in her life. They came to America only ‘round hundred years ago. Now you listen up-” he directed this sentence to Wednesday who raised an eyebrow, actually interested for once. “-because there’s a moral to this, one y’all have to learn quick.”_

_Hades gets a bad rap these days, because he’s now not only associated with Death itself, but the devil as well. But he wasn’t always like that, no way. He was just the ruler over all the dead, he didn’t have to cause it. People are good enough at causing their own deaths. But Persephone, man. He made her keeper over the Furies, and she reveled in her position of power. No one could cross them, because you can’t cheat Death, no matter what you do._

_Only one thing on this earth can bring him to his knees: Persephone. His goddamn sunshine, you know? Prettiest goddamn thing I've ever seen, and I’ll stand by that, dammit, even if Venus comes and slaps that right outta my mouth. But I’ll stand by it, because those blue eyes hold the secrets of life and death, and you’ll drown if you spend too long staring. Goddamn queen of hell, and they all know it. I saw flowers bloom from just one touch and people cut down with one whistle as the Furies obey that command. It’s the goddamn shit, seeing those two together, ultimate power couple right there, so in love it’s evident in the fuckin’ weather. When it’s randomly cool in the summer and spring, that’s Persephone’s little detour for some Underworld frolicking, if you catch my drift._

_Now, you’d think Death would be doing well, as everybody dies, but not everyone dies and goes to him. Ever since Paul mixed up Christian hell with Greek Hades, it started getting too crowded and he started getting nudged out of his own turf. People weren’t dying and going to Hades anymore, they’re going down to hell. And death, as we all know, is about consumption. Death is like fire, you know. It is all-encompassing and all-consuming. It needs to be fed._

_Give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. You teach a man to catch and kill his own fish, he eats forever._

 

_Somewhere in America, 1966. A Motel 6, room 66. Time: 11:57 PM_

 

When you can’t go back to your palace, you make do with what you have. Even if it's molding shower curtains and peeling wallpaper and smelly carpet.

Persephone laid back in the bed, pulling a pack of menthols from his coat pocket before tossing it onto the coat hook. It hung on by the left sleeve. He removed a cigarette and left the pack on the table, holding the cigarette between two fingers and held it up.

“Light.”

Hades opened his lighter and lit it for him, then hung his own coat up on the rack before climbing into the bed next to him. Persephone took a long drag before holding it, turning around and breathing the minty, cool smoke across his lips before kissing him gently, then resting his head on his chest. Hades’ hand went up to tangle in the chestnut brown curls of his hair, to pull him just a bit closer as he kissed his forehead. The TV hummed and buzzed, and it got both of their attentions as it signed off with the image of the American flag waving while the Star-Spangled Banner played in the background.

_“...for the land of the free….and the home of the brave…”_

But instead of the color test pattern, the crappy picture changed and fizzed to show a woman on the set of a dark, creepy mansion. And she looked familiar, with long black hair and a very signature dress. 

“Hello, _mon cher,”_ Morticia Addams smiled from inside the TV, looking directly at Hades and then to Persephone with a nod. “And _mon chou,_ how are we this evening?”

 “I wasn’t planning on speaking to the television,” Hades replied dryly. “Go away.”

Morticia just laughed, a light, airy tone. “Oh, no, darling, you misunderstand. I’m here to help.”

Hades accepted the cigarette from Persephone and took a long drag of his own, breathing out the smoke in a perfect ring that disintegrated around the TV set. He remained quiet. Morticia’s smile was eerie in just the right way.

“Don’t you want help?”

“I don’t make deals,” Hades finally replied, lighting two more, the ash dropping onto the thin sheets.

“I know you don’t, and this isn’t a deal. It will only benefit you, I promise. Think of it as growth, like beautiful mold spores multiplying. Delicious. I’m here to help your influence spread. How long has it been since people made a sacrifice in your name?”

“No one sacrifices to death, they sacrifice to stay _away_ from death.”

“Well, darling, allow me to help you change that,” Morticia grinned. Hades could feel Persephone’s sneer, and rubbed at his neck to calm him. Morticia awed a little, cleared her throat, and snapped her fingers twice, in tune with the instrumental theme song that played as an undercurrent in the background, and beside her, a hand popped out of a box. It was holding a picture of a young man.

“Thank you, Thing,” she said sweetly, tapping her long nail on the picture. “This is Ted. In a few years, he will unleash a reign of terror that will leave thirty-six girls dead. But when he gets to court, what happens? They make him into a celebrity, the charmer. Girls dye their hair brown and part it down the middle like his victims and sit behind him in court and giggle when he winks at them.”

The picture falls to the ground, and suddenly Morticia isn’t on the screen anymore, but a parade of black-and-white faces go through the screen like a slideshow.

“The age of heroes that were popular in your time? Those days are _gone,_ darling. What do they worship now in America? _Crime._ Criminals are America’s heroes, look, there’s Jesse James, Bonnie and Clyde, Butch Cassidy, all of those folk heroes. But there’s more, so much more. Look at Al Capone, the FBI didn’t catch him for his silly little massacre, the IRS got him on not paying his taxes. His business card said he was a furniture dealer and people believed him. Look at Dahmer, Gacy, Wuornos, Defeo, Bundy, H.H. Holmes, Ramirez, all of them are and will be immortalized in American culture forever and ever because they love it. They’re addicted to the idea that their next door neighbor might be murderer, or that they could have been a victim. Such an adrenaline rush, coming close to death. Right, dear?”

Persephone takes another long drag, and his hand shakes a little. The pictures are flying past, faster and faster.

“Because America _worships_ these people. They are the embodiments of everyone's darkest fantasies, of what happens when that dark side inside all of them is embraced. People love it.  It’s worship. It’s reverence. It’s _fear. Fear_ is everlasting. Every poor girl strangled in front of a gold VW bug’s headlights is a sacrifice. Every boy shoved under into a crawlspace under a clown’s house is a sacrifice. Every time someone slips in through the window, throws a hand over the victim’s face and makes them swear to Satan not to scream, is a sacrifice. When David Berkowitz murders six people, it’s because he hears your voice coming from his neighbor’s black Lab. Every time a life is snuffed out because someone had to feed their darkness, your influence grows. ‘Devil made me do it’ will be the number one excuse in America, and _that's_ who you can be.”

Hades reached for the remote and pressed the power button in an attempt to turn her cheery, morbid tone off, but she suddenly reappeared on the screen, her hands pushing away the black sidebars so that she remained visible.

“Now, there’s no need to torture yourself, darling,” Morticia smiled, lips pressed tightly together. “That’s my job. Don’t you want this? You’ll have all the blood you need. You’re not like me, I thrive on time and attention, you’ve never needed that. You need blood.”

“Regardless,” Hades said, still sounding bored as he snuffed out the cigarette on the ashtray by the bed. “What you’re preaching, what you’re selling, is not what I am.”

“Well, it is now,” was her curt response. Now it didn’t sound like Morticia’s voice as much. “It’s what's happening to you.”

“Nothing happens to me, I happen to people.”

“And you still believe that, don’t you? Your image never needs to shift, does it? Well,” she giggled, and it sounded like canned laughter. “Persephone, dear, you’re in the same boat, you know. More than just six months in a year, now that poor Demeter is-”

“What’s your point?” Persephone said in a clipped tone. “What about me?”

Morticia pouted in a mocking fashion. “You still clutch to your image as spring incarnate, but no one thinks of you as spring anymore.”

Persephone held his breath just a little bit longer than necessary, letting the ash drop onto his shirt.

“The spring does not belong to you anymore. Do you know what they think of when they think of you? When it gets cold, and the crops die, and people starve and freeze and pray for warmth, it's because of you. You don’t ever experience winter, you’re just the cause of it. So become autumn. Adapt, evolve, because-”

“That’s not my nature,” Persephone argued.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s what people believe. And if they believe that perception of you, that’s what you become. And you don’t need to pretend anymore, now that you’re with him all twelve months. You _like_ being the ice queen of the dead, occasionally showing mercy, but his equal, don’t you?”

Persephone smiled a smile as fake as cellophane grass, smoking the last bit of his cigarette. Morticia sighed at last, folding her arms across her chest.

“This is not an offer, you understand. This was a warning. You can either adapt to the times and evolve, or fade out while you hunt for scraps on the floor. When you get weak enough, you’ll bend. Vulcan did. Everyone does. When you get hungry enough, you’ll bend.”

She winked, snapped her fingers twice, and the TV turned to static. Hades and Persephone sat in silence for a while, until Persephone hissed when the nub of her cigarette finally burned his fingers, and he dropped it into his glass of water. He curled up closer against Hades’ chest, tracing his fingers over his jawline.

“No matter what, I still love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

 

_September 21, 1966_

Love is a strong thing, but it wears and it tears.

Persephone sat on a park bench, letting the sunlight fall on his face, warming it. He blinked, feeling tired. They were both tired all the time now, looking and feeling anemic. He blinked, and even that was a strain. He looked down and saw a beautiful patch of violets. Smiling, he reached down and picked one, and could only watch in horror as the petals wilted and died in his grasp. The same thing happened with each and every flower he picked, even a fresh new dandelion floated away on the wind.

It was then he heard three shots and whipped around to see his Furies, his birds, dead on the ground from bullets. In shock and grief, a feeling he wasn’t used to, he picked up the shell casing. _Vulcan._

“Fucker,” he managed to mutter, crushing it in his grasp as a gust of wind blew past.

And for the first time, there was a real shiver in his bones.

He watched from behind a tree as the hunter laughed over what he had shot, and left the there to rot away back into the earth. Persephone covered her pets in fresh leaves that quickly started to die in her hands, turning blood red and yellow. He ran back to the street, and the grass turned brown under his feet.

 

 

Hades sat watching Persephone order a drink at the bar, pulling out his cigarette holder while waiting for a drink. Persephone swirled the glass of whiskey around in his hand (Hades was right, American wine was weak but whisky at least had a little kick to it. He’d do _anything_ to feel a little _alive_ again.)

They were starving.

And then Persephone looked up and saw the hunter from earlier sliding into closest seat, smile dripping with oil, and obviously after a different pray now.

Hades almost crushed his glass in hand, and darkness clouded his vision as he reached out to touch Persephone's hand,

Persephone turned just enough to lock eyes with Hades, and he was satisfied to see that same darkness in his love’s eyes, along with a little smile. He smiled back.

Persephone turned around and tested the sharp bottom of his cigarette holder, then looked back up at the man in front. 

He could feel his veins stirring, they way they used to do when he could make something grow.

He extended the holder, and his lips curved into a smile as sharp as pruning shears.

 _“Light?”_  

 

 

 

“Shadow!”

Shadow snapped back into focus as Wednesday fiddled with the old car radio. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Would you mind if I put on a little music? This song’s a little fitting for our trip.”

Shadow shrugged, as Wednesday hummed along to the beat, his low voice smoothing over the words.

 

_One day as I was closing my country music store,_

_In came a red haired lady,_

_She was all cried out and sore._

_She walked right in and grabbed me_

_Just right out of the blue,_

_And said "I need someone to listen,_

_And this someone will be you."_

_She said, "I know that men are stupid,_

_I know that you are too,_

_So I will try to simplify my story just for you._

_I am a man-eater, I own them from the start,_

_But somehow this handsome fucker got his hand around my heart._

 

_Well I know I had it coming,_

_I knew I was a fool,_

_Cause he really made me trust him_

_And he really made me drool,_

_He made me feel important,_

_He knew just what to say,_

_But you can bet your ass I really made him pay._

 

_She said "My plan was to seduce him,_

_But he was far ahead,_

_He smiled at me and suddenly_

_I laid down in his bed._

_And so far it was perfect, but something wasn't right,_

_Because I thought of him the whole next day,_

_And dreamt of him all night._

_And soon I was his baby,_

_My god I was naive,_

_Cause he was fine and he was mine,_

_I simply couldn't leave._

_One day I came home early and found him in a chair,_

_But over him sat my best friend,_

_And guess what she did there._

 

_Well I know I had it coming,_

_I knew I was a fool,_

_Cause he really made me trust him_

_And he really made me drool,_

_He made me feel important,_

_He knew just what to say,_

_But you can bet your ass I really made him pay._

 

_Well I didn't care about her,_

_I let her run away,_

_He said 'oh please I'm sorry'_

_And I said 'but you will pay.'_

_Then he tried to escape me, but I was far ahead,_

_I found a knife and took his life,_

_Oh god how much he bled._

_And then I cut him up in pieces,_

_My handsome charming midge,_

_I sorted him in big black bags, and put him in the fridge._

_Now I am a man-eater, in more than just one way..._ (at this part, Wednesday chuckled to himself and kept singing. Shadow got a chill down his spine.)

_He tastes like pig, but that's okay,_

_I eat him every day._

 

_Well I know I had it coming,_

_I knew I was a fool,_

_Cause he really made me trust him_

_And he really made me drool,_

_He made me feel important,_

_He knew just what to say,_

_But you can bet your ass I really made him pay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? I don't have an obsession with the Addams Family. *shoves Addams Family AU under a couch* I swear! ;)
> 
> Sorry, no Hannibal and Will yet, still some backstory to plow through. But they're coming, I promise!
> 
> If you'd like to see Gillian Anderson as Morticia Addams, [here](http://pics.blameitonthevoices.com/012016/gil.jpg) you go! And if you're interested in the song I included, [here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mkjwSWW0rQ0) a link to listen along!
> 
> And as always, please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandwiches, cocktails, and a blood-soaked bath. And Shadow knows when something feels weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was originally part of the upcoming chapter, but it was getting too long and disjointed, so I had to chop it up. I hope you all enjoy this little tease of what's to come...

Wednesday peeled a twenty off of the tightly-wrapped roll of bills and handed it to Shadow.

“What’s this for?” Shadow asked.

“Get some food, you’ll need it,” Wednesday said, nodding in the direction of a hole-in-the-wall diner closeby. “I need to pick up something in the wine shop. Feel free to get whatever you want, except alcohol, I need you sharp for this evening.”

“Do you want something?” Shadow asked. “I can pick up a sandwich or something.”

“No, no,” Wednesday said with a wave of his hand. “I’m fasting, you can have whatever you want. I’ll come get you when I’ve made my purchase.”

Shadow nodded, turning away when Wednesday started in the opposite direction and headed inside the little diner. It was quiet in there, with bare brick walls and pictures that demonstrated a real love of the beach. The themes didn’t really match, with the warm sand of the beach kind of a messy contrast to the coldness of the bricks, but the bright smile of the hostess made Shadow feel a little more comfortable.

“Hi honey,” she smiled, her blonde hair falling in her face. “Table for one?”

He nodded, and she led him over to a side table near the back, where it was private but he could watch the little garage band set up on a meager stage. He looked over the menu as she pulled a pink pen out from behind her ear.

“I’ll have the ham sandwich with red-eye gravy and an iced tea, please,” he said politely, pointing to the faded pictures on the menu.

“We have a pie special today, only four dollars for a slice.”

Shadow thought for a moment, looking at the pies in the case by the front. “Okay, I’ll have a slice of the apple.”

“A la mode?”

“Why not?” he said, finding it in himself to smile back. She gave him a wink.

“I’ll let Dawn know and bring your tea right out, honey.”

Shadow nodded after her, trying vainly to stretch his legs out in the little booth. He absently picked at a dried ketchup stain in the corner with one hand as he watched as the band did a microphone check. Not counting the band and the waitress and “Dawn,” there were only about six other people besides Shadow in the whole diner, and it was muted, yet cheery. A little calm before an apparent storm, he thought. He was still lost in thought when the waitress came back.

“Here’s your sandwich and tea, honey,” she said with another smile, and he smiled back when he thanked her and she walked back to the front. The gravy dripped down his chin when he took a bite, and as he wiped his face clean, the lead singer on the band with the slight-bit-too-greasy long hair approached the mike. He counted off with his fingers, and the drums and guitar started to back his crooning vocals, as he kept his mouth close to the mike as though it were a lover’s ear. Shadow closed his eyes as he drank a sip of tea, and let the words flow.

_“I’ve been working on a cocktail called grounds for divorce...”_

 

_Somewhere in America, 1968_

 

“Give me an absinthe with a shot of midori,” Persephone said dryly, tapping his nails on the bar. The bartender nodded, making the drink and sliding it over to him, and he finished it in one slug, setting the glass back down with a thud before standing again. It was shit absinthe, this shit country banned the actual stuff, so all they had was basically rubbing alcohol with some liquorice root dissolved in it. Disgusting.

He was hungry, again. They both were. He had needed to go somewhere to try to breathe, to be around nature again, but everything kept browning to a crisp when he came near. They were barely subsisting with this deep-seated hunger. They’d long lost count of how many they’d consumed since they started, but now it was impossible to stop.

He noticed someone watching him from a distance, getting up to come closer this way. Perfect. He stood, left money on the bar, and went out the side entrance. He listened as the footsteps followed behind him, coming closer and closer. When he turned down a dark alley, he turned quickly, freezing the surprised look on the other man’s face with a quick slash across the throat with a switchblade.

It didn’t make Persephone feel warm. Nothing did anymore.

He licked the blood off of his palm as he made his way back to the hotel room, going up the fire escape stairs to their room.

Hades looked up from where he was watching Cronkite speak in a dull voice over images of battered soldiers in Vietnam, and set down his blood-stained fork. He didn’t look surprised. “Is that your blood?” he asked.

“Nope,” Persephone said.

“What did he do?”

Persephone let out a half laugh. “Absolutely nothing.” He paused again, then repeated himself, a little softer this time. "Absolutely nothing." 

He then moved a lock of hair from his face and went straight into the bathroom, starting the bath and filling it with hot water. He watched blood melt into the water when he stepped in, watching it stain the sides. He sunk back, down in over his head, and took a deep breath under the water. It filled his lungs, but it didn’t burn. It used to burn, back then, back when everything was simpler. Back when everything was lighter, and didn’t weigh him down like the water currently in his lungs. He sat up, breathing out all the bloody water.

If only everything could be that simple.

Hades slipped into the room, and Persephone leaned back, letting him wash his hair. It was quiet, and peaceful, and yet it brimmed with uncertainty and apprehension.

“How long can we continue like this?” Persephone asked, dragging his fingertips in circles on the surface of the water.

Hades didn’t answer, just gently massaging at the scalp. It was only a few moments later when he finally said, “I will _never_  let you go.”

“Don’t. _Please.”_

“I promise. And I _always_ keep my promises, my love.”

 

They were down in the Underworld again, and it was far too quiet. Most souls had been moved to Christian hell or some other ‘other side’, and so it was almost empty except for the few they had managed to take over the past century or so. They were on the banks of the Styx, where the sand was ice cold, and the mist kept everything hidden. Charon was gone by this time, as well, so it was just them.

Hades gently cupped the side of Persephone’s cheek, and kissed him gently. “I love you.”

Persephone's smile was faint, but it was there. “I love you, too. More than anything."

 

_Now, it’s unclear what happened next. It’s unclear if one of them pushed the other into the river and was dragged in unwillingly. It’s unclear whether one of them jumped and the other was trying to save them when they sank under the water. It’s unclear if they both jumped._

_What is clear is that when you drink from the Styx, you don’t remember anything from your previous life. A living person will have the life drained right out of them._

_But what happens when Death and Life take the plunge?_

 

 

“He’ll take the pie to go.”

Shadow was suddenly paying attention to what was happening. Wednesday was speaking with the hostess, who was wrapping the slice of apple pie. Shadow left the whole twenty, plus the three dollars and all the change in his pocket on the table, and headed up to the front. Wednesday had a bottle of wine in one hand, and smiled when he came over.

“There you are. Come on, we’re going to meet him before dinner.”

Shadow couldn’t help but ask back in the car, “Um, so why didn’t we just go have dinner _with_ your friend?”

“First of all, he’s not really a friend, it’d be rude to invite ourselves over,” Wednesday stated, turning on the headlights. “Second, he’s hospitable, he’d feed us anyway. But thirdly, that is exactly why I sent you to eat, you’re not allowed to eat anything he offers. No food whatsoever. That includes drinks, that includes water. If you’re thirsty, you can have half a glass of this wine I brought, but do not, I repeat, do _not_ eat _anything.”_

“Why?” Shadow asked, already starting to become weary of this entire situation. Wednesday shrugged a little bit.

“Because I have every intention of taking you with me when we leave.”

“That - that doesn't make any sense, why don’t you ever just fucking _answer_ a question?” Shadow groaned, leaning back so the back of his head hit the top of the seat.

“Hey, nice words, _nice_ words, please. I gotta watch my language, too, he doesn’t like rude behavior,” Wednesday chastised lightly, parallel parking on the side street. “He’s just up the road.”

Shadow’s stomach sank a little. It was a very normal neighborhood in the twilight of the evening. A kid was riding their bike, there was laughter from the porch of a nearby house. But the house Wednesday was standing in was quiet except for the faint sounds of an opera aria coming out from an open window. The lights were on on the first level, but not on the second.

It was perfectly normal, and Shadow had been around the block enough to know that perfectly normal doesn’t truly exist. Especially since he had joined Wednesday. Normalcy was too much of a far-fetched concept at this point.

Wednesday didn’t seem too perturbed, just walked right up to the front door and rang the doorbell. Shadow scurried after him, hissing, “Does - does he know we’re coming?”

“What? Oh _hell_ no, what’d you expect me to do, send him a damn teleg-”

The door swung open and Shadow immediately stood up straighter when the man in question appeared in the doorway before them. Wednesday smiled. “Hello, doctor. Long time no see, eh?”

Dr. Hannibal Lecter was two inches shorter than Shadow Moon, but Shadow had never felt smaller than he felt underneath Hannibal’s slight smile and piercing gaze. 

“It has, Wednesday. Who is this, if I may ask?

Shadow was grateful that Wednesday spoke for him he wasn’t sure he could have spoken without stuttering under that watchful eye. “Oh, this is my man, Shadow Moon.”

“A pleasure,” he said warmly, too warmly, like sitting beside a fire and the sparks start to lick at your skin. He moved out of the doorframe, a hand on the doorknob. “Please come in.”

Shadow had read quite a bit in prison, every book he could get his hands on, and he was immediately reminded of a line from a book of nineteenth-century poetry as they stepped over the threshold and the heavy oak door closed behind with a thud and a _lock_ reminiscent of his old cell and the cellar door of his Mama’s house.

_Will you step into my parlor? said the spider to the fly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song mentioned is Elbow's "[Grounds for Divorce](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxczVhG0os8)." Fun fact, that is also the name of the cocktail mentioned ;)
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a take a bite, my dear, and let all your troubles fade away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For timeline reference, this is taking place in the Hannibal universe a few days before Mizumono.

“What brings you by on short notice, Wednesday?” Lecter asked, testing the door to be certain it was locked.

“I heard that you had a bit of a tiff with a patient, so I thought I'd bring you a sympathy gift,” Wednesday said smoothly, hanging his coat up on the rack and holding up the bottle of wine. Shadow moved to do the same, when Lecter stopped him.

“Please, allow me.”

Shadow removed his coat and handed it over to Lecter, who accepted it and folded it smoothly on the fading crease and hung it up. As he extended his arms, his shirt sleeve slipped and Shadow caught fresh scars on his wrists. He didn’t ask, but Lecter was finally answering Wednesday’s question.

“Yes, there was an incident, but rest assured, nothing to worry about,” he replied coolly. “Please, come into the kitchen, I was just preparing dinner."

Shadow took one step into the kitchen and the smell that hit his nostrils threw him for an absolute loop. It smelled _delicious._ Not just delicious, but…

_Scent is the sense most closely linked to memory._

Shadow’s mother used to buy a big slab of pork shoulder when it was on sale, and he had many memories of sitting on the clean counter and watching as she put it all in a crockpot with a slew of spices and a good, thick sauce. Then she spent at least a half hour shredding the meat between two forks. There was no recipe, but she didn't need one. It always came out perfect.

 _The secret is the vinegar, honey,_  she’d say, checking the meat as it cooked all day. _Apple cider vinegar and a hint of dried thyme. That’s the secret._

 _How much thyme, Mama?_   he had asked.

 _Until it feels right,_ was her response every time.

Shadow had tried to make that dish not long after she passed away. He’d watched her do it enough times that he knew what to do. He put the pork in with the vinegar, he added the sauce, and he added thyme until it felt right.

It didn't taste the same. It didn’t taste the way it did when the sauce was all over their faces and they were laughing at each other at the dinner table. Something had been missing.

Laura was _(had been)_ the opposite when it came to cooking. She used a recipe every single time, and yet her cookbooks were always clean, no spots on the pages.

She made an enchilada soup for dinner one time, following the recipe to the letter, and had even measured out exactly two tablespoons of sour cream to put on the top. It was delicious, and he told her so. She had shrugged, a slight smile pulling at her lips.

_I just followed the recipe, puppy. Not much more to it than that._

When Laura went out of town for a weekend with Audrey, Shadow had pulled out her cookbook and made that enchilada soup. He followed the recipe to letter, the way Laura did, chopped the tomatoes into precise one-inch chunks, adding exactly one shake of chili powder. He even spooned out two tablespoons of sour cream for the topping.

But it didn’t taste the same. It didn’t taste like it had when they were curled up in a blanket on the couch, watching old Bugs Bunny reruns and letting the soup dry like glue in the bowls as they tangled together and eventually fell asleep, her head on his chest.

Someone was saying his name, Shadow snapped out of his reverie and realized he hadn’t made it that far into the kitchen. He was still standing by the door, and Lecter was stirring something on the stove while Wednesday was opening the wine.

“Sorry,” Shadow apologized, shaking himself back into reality. “I, uh, got lost in my thoughts for a moment.”

Lecter smiled. It didn’t help settle any nerves. “That’s all right.” He took the ladle sitting nearby the stove, wrapped a hand towel around the handle, and dipped it into the - _was that stew? soup? sauce?_ \- and turned, holding it as though it were an offering as Shadow approached the counter. “Would you like a taste?”

It was a dark, deep, rich color red. It smelled like spice and sweetness and bitterness and meat. _Very_ meaty. It smelled like dinners with Mama, it smelled like the early days with Laura.

It smelled like... _home._

 _Yes,_ Shadow thought. _I want to taste home again._

He almost said it out loud when he remembered Wednesday’s words.

 _Do not eat anything_ and _I have every intention of taking you back with me._

Shadow blinked twice, then moved back slightly. “No. No thank you.”

Lecter didn’t raise an eyebrow, but Shadow felt it anyway. “Please, I insist.”

“No,” Shadow said again, a little firmer this time, looking Lecter straight in the eye. “I - I’m not hungry. Thank you, though.”

Something flashed through Lecter’s eyes, and Shadow felt like his gaze was sprouting long arms and hands, wrapping around his neck and squeezing hard. He wanted to cough before he started choking, gasping for air and relief, but he was afraid if he opened his mouth Lecter might just grab his jaw, pry it open, and force the liquid down his throat.

Lecter was the personification of an intrusive thought.  _Just a little closer, one taste, don’t you want it, what would happen if-_

Then, suddenly, Lecter’s entire demeanor softened, changing completely. It was as though he had just slipped a mask over his true features. It almost gave Shadow whiplash when that smile appeared, as though nothing had just occurred, even though, truly, nothing _had_ occurred.

“That’s alright,” he smiled. Shadow did not smile back as Lecter dipped the ladle back into the stew and wiped the rest off with a clean cloth. Shadow took a deep breath after he turned around, a respite from that too-warm gaze.

“So tell me, doctor,” Wednesday said, pouring the wine into only two glasses when Shadow shook his head at the offering. “What have you been up to since we last met?”

“Still working in my psychiatry practice, and have recently branched out to assist the FBI in the Chesapeake Ripper case,” Lecter replied, adding a few bay leaves to the mixture.

“How do you know each other?” Shadow asked, curiosity bubbling up. A near smile appeared in the corners of Lecter’s lips, and Wednesday’s smile was more pronounced.

“It was at a production of _Medea,_ up in - where was it, New York? Yeah, New York, that was it, back in ‘98. You weren’t a fan of the ending, as I recall.”

Lecter picked up his glass and swirled the wine around. Shadow could see a very _specific_ emotion, the strongest one yet, flash through his eyes before fading away slowly.

“My stance on Medea’s retaliation has shifted as of late,” he said cryptically before taking a slow sip. He set the glass back down and then fixed Shadow with an examining look. “Medea found that Jason wanted to leave her, so she murdered their children and ruined his life before disappearing into thin air. Do you think that was an appropriate response, Shadow?”

Shadow thought back to when he found the concrete evidence that Laura had cheated on him, when he went back to the house _(it didn’t feel like home anymore)_ and saw the picture. He remembered scrubbing until his fingers were raw to sanitize everything and try to get it back the way that it had been.

“I could understand,” he finally replied, treading lightly. “But I don’t think I’d be able to strike back that hard. It would - it might be easier to at least _try_ to understand, maybe find it in yourself to forgive.”

Lecter seemed to digest Shadow’s response, not showing a clear emotion one way or the other. Instead, he chose to remove a perfect tomato from a bowl and rolled it back and forth before setting it in the middle of the cutting board. He took a nearby long butcher knife and delicately cut around the stem, placing it aside before making a definite cut down the middle. The red juice oozed out from the core and onto the board, and a little bit of it ran down the side, like blood. It was hypnotizing, watching strong hands confidently, and yet, a hint of relaxed ease, hold a knife.

He made a clean cut down the side, and Shadow’s mind was flooded with the image of a person gasping for air after their throat had been cut. He blinked and the image went away.

Lecter reached into the tomato to remove the seeds, and the squishing and the squeaking of the pulpy mush between his long fingers made Shadow feel queasy for some reason.

“I see you still enjoy cooking,” Wednesday said, taking a long slug of his drink, bringing Shadow back to the present and a much-needed sense of relief.

“I transferred my skills in anatomy to the culinary arts after my surgical career came to a standstill,” Hannibal replied, cleaning the tomato guts from his hands before removing a Tupperware from the refrigerator. He opened the lid and carefully took out something wrapped in wax paper. It turned out to be a - well, Shadow really couldn’t tell _what_ it was, only that it was some sort of meat.

Wednesday gave it a once-over as he asked, “Pâté, looks delicious.”

“Isn’t pâté when you force a goose to eat corn until it dies?” Shadow asked, not comfortable with the gray organ carelessly plopped onto the cutting board.

“You are correct, Shadow. But not to worry, I only even employ an ethical butcher to use for my meats,” Lecter stated, reaching over to his knife rack for a clean blade, testing the sharpness with a sprig of rosemary. “The meat has a distinctly worse taste if the animal suffers beforehand.”

 _Czernobog had said the same thing,_ Shadow thougth, a cold shiver going down his spine as Lecter cut easily through the liver as though it were butter. He cut through the liver and Shadow couldn't watch.

He excused himself, citing a need to use the restroom, which happened to be on the other side of the living room. Just before he opened the door, he heard a soft thud. He turned around to find the source of the noise but there was nothing there, and he swore that the basement door that was not far from the kitchen had been open. And then he swore that it locked. Shaking his head, he went into the bathroom and closed the door. He sat on the toilet seat and tried to gather his bearings. There was something very wrong here, something felt weird. He wanted to get out of here. Sure, Czernobog had wanted to bash his brains in with a hammer, but at least he had been _upfront_ about it. Dr. Lecter had a sense of quiet unease, a blanket covering of warmth and understanding that was hiding something underneath.

Shadow closed his eyes for a brief moment, and instantly was transported somewhere else.

He was among a forest of pines, and it was dark, the darkness of the early morning, when the sun just starts to peek out from the horizon. As though the sun itself was afraid to reveal what had occurred. The pines were tall and numerous, and bones littered the forest floor, making crunching noises whenever Shadow took a step in either direction. The body of a young woman was interwoven in the twisting branches of one of the trees, the needles of the pine dug into her flesh and causing little rivulets of blood to drip down onto his forehead and run down his cheek. It was beautiful, in the most grotesque way possible.

_Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!_

Crunching noises behind Shadow got his attention, and he turned, expecting to see the buffalo that had come to haunt his dreams as of late, but no. It was a great black stag, with raven’s feathers instead of fur all over its body. It came closer and closer, crushing the bones underneath its hooves, crumbling them into dust. When it stopped, it was so close that its long, sharp antlers were almost resting on his shoulders. It breathed out hot smoke that smelled like burning, rotten meat and then breathed out one word:

_See._

Shadow forced his eyes open and took a deep, shuddering breath, and yet the cool air of the restroom did not soothe his fears one bit, not with the smell of liver braising in red wine sneaking in under the door.

 

 

“Is Shadow alright?” Hannibal asked Wednesday as he chopped a bit of onion into little pieces. It caused Wednesday’s good eye to water, but Hannibal’s stayed dry.

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” Wednesday reassured, pouring a little more wine into each glass. “He recently lost his wife and best friend right as he was leaving prison, he’s still adjusting.”

That seemed to spark Hannibal’s interest. “My condolences, of course.”

“Don’t bother, they died being unfaithful, he shouldn’t still be upset over it, honestly.”

“A heartbreak can leave a lasting impact, regardless of which party is to blame,” Hannibal said, scraping the onion flecks off of the blade into the pan. “It can be the most damaging scar to bear.”

Wednesday raised an eyebrow as well as his glass. “Experience any heartbreaks lately, doctor? That why you’re on Medea’s side now?”

Wednesday could tell that Hannibal restrained himself from potentially cutting his throat in that moment. “I have not, as a matter of fact. I wouldn’t allow that, as you know.”

“Of course,” Wednesday agreed sarcastically. Then he paused for a brief moment, and then looked Hannibal up and down. “Are you certain that we haven’t met before _Medea,_ in ‘98?”

“You asked me _at_ _Medea_ in 1998 if we had met before,” Hannibal replied, his tone reminiscent of someone being patient with a little child. “And we had not.”

 _Yes, we had,_ Wednesday thought. _Yes we had._

He would kept pressing forward, kept poking at the bruise on the bear, when there was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” he said, as Hannibal was currently occupied with the liver. Hannibal nodded, and Wednesday took his glass with him as he went to the front door and opened it.

Staring back into Wednesday’s _core_ was a pair of deep blue eyes that were all-too familiar, and he mentally chided himself for thinking that _he_ wouldn’t be here, that all of him truly _was_ lost.

An eyebrow was raised by one of the blue eyes.

“Do I know you?” Will Graham asked, sounding confused with annoyance rounding out the edges of his words.

Wednesday only smiled, eyes sparkling with memories of another time. Another _life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, it's getting juicy, y'all! This is so much fun to write, I hope you guys have fun reading it!
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them and answering any questions about the fic that you might have!
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really an excuse for some 1920s funtimes and backstory.

_Somewhere in America, 1926_

 

“Of course Jesus fucking Christ is still doing well for himself,” Wednesday sneered over a glass of bathtub gin that did indeed taste like dirty bathwater. He offered the rest of the bottle to Hades, whose pinstripe suit blended in perfectly with the mob crowd currently playing cards during a meeting in this hellhole of a speakeasy. He politely refused. “You know his churches are getting record numbers because that’s the only place in this shitty country that’ll give you a fucking drink legally? Not fuckin’ _fair,_ they just want an excuse to sin.”

Hades gave him a look that almost oozed with something akin to disdain, but he tolerated him for a moment. “Technically, it’s Christ’s _blood,_ not wine.”

“Yeah, all the those Christians on their fuckin’ high horses about this and that, and yet they drink their so-called _Savior’s_ blood and eat his flesh. That’s rather harsh of them, not enough to kill the fucker, they have to eat him, too. You think they ever feel guilty?”

“I doubt it,” Hades said dryly, almost as dry as the martini he held in his hand, with a thick black ring around his ring finger. Obsidian, most likely. He stirred the toothpick-speared olive in his drink before saying, “I personally never feel guilty about eating anything.”

Then, an almost foreign expression came across his face. It was a smile. Not for Wednesday, of course, but directed towards someone behind him. Wednesday turned around and smiled as well at the figure behind him.

“Well, if isn’t Death’s own personal little ray of sunshine.”

“Fuck off, Wednesday,” Persephone said, rolling his eyes as he pulled a menthol cigarette from his suit jacket pocket, taking a seat on the lounge bench beside Hades, who then wrapped his arm securely across his shoulders and lit his cigarette for him, an action that was fluid and well-rehearsed. Persephone smiled after he took a drag. “Thank you,” he said, breathing out the smoke and leaning back into the touch. Then he raised an eyebrow at Wednesday, “What do you want?”

“Do I _need_ to have an ulterior motive to meet with old friends?”

“What is it?” Hades asked with a near sigh, taking a sip of a drink. Wednesday let out a full sigh of his own.

“I’m just saying, it’s been awhile since America had a good, solid war for us _all_ to get involved in.”

“They just finished the Great War, wasn’t that enough?”

“Oh please, that wasn’t _America’s_ war,” Wednesday rolled his eyes, partly from the comment and mostly because of the disgusting amount of affection that oozed between the two of them with the hand rubbing at Persephone’s shoulder and doting, quick looks at each other. “That was them sticking their nose in someone else’s business. The American way, of course.”

“Your point,” Hades pressed, obviously wishing that he’d just leave so they could be alone together.

“My point is that a war would be beneficial for all of us, friend. I need the conflict, you need the casualties. A _partnership,_ if you will.”

Hades pulled the olive off of his toothpick with his teeth as Persephone breathed out another puff of minty-fresh smoke. Both of them had the exact same expression on their faces: bemusement.

The silence between the three of them was broken up by the crooning of the lounge singer with perfectly lined eye makeup and blood-red thin lips:

 

_I have always placed you high above me_

_I just can't imagine that you love me_

_And after all that’s said and done_

_I can’t believe I’m the lucky one_

_I can’t believe that you’re in love with me._

 

A server came by, offering a glass of whiskey on the house. Persephone offered a smile that had the appearance of sincerity and warmth and comfort,  but nothing behind the eyes. The server started to smile back, but he stopped short underneath the ice-cold glare Hades sent his way, along with the soft squeeze on Persephone’s shoulder. He scurried off, and Persephone held the cigarette in his teeth before using the free hand to smooth a soothing circle on Hades’ thigh, and just like that, Hades melted a little and relaxed into his seat again. Wednesday held back another eye roll, taking in the scene of the couple in crisp, clean suits with cold jewels on rings and cufflinks, sapphires that matched Persephone’s bright blue eyes. The only real difference was the fresh flower in Persephone’s lapel that looked as though it was fresh from the ground.

Hades finally spoke. “I have no need for a war now, Glad-O-War. People will always die and they will always wage wars. You just need patience.”

“Patience is not a virtue I have ever been able to afford. _You,_ on the other hand, have _had_ to be patient for six months out of each and every year to get what you want since before any of them can remember.”

That earned another unamused look from the two of them, until Hades cracked a smile.

“Playing dirty, Wednesday?”

“Don’t I always?” Wednesday smirked back, feeling like he had the upper hand. Hades twisted his toothpick between his fingers before sliding a look over to Persephone, who shared the same small smile as the ash dropped into his lap. With that smile, Hades took the toothpick and aimed it like a mini little javelin, lining up with one of the mob men playing cards across the way, and threw it.

It landed squarely against the man’s neck, barely scarping at the skin. The man jumped and swore at the man behind him for disrupting his conversation and how he was trying to disrupt proceedings at this here game. It escalated into a screaming match between the two sides, into a fight that built up higher and higher until guns were drawn. The man who had been marked was just a half-second too slow, and the other man pulled the trigger just as Persephone snuffed out his cigarette in the coldness of the ashtray beside him.

What followed happened in near slow motion.

The bullet hit square between the eyes, ending the life in that instant as the back of his head opened and the blood and matter inside rushed out in one massive wave that washed over Wednesday, and fell in a soft rain shower over Hades and Persephone. Little flecks of blood landed on the bouquet of white gardenias on the table before them, and on their clothes, showing up in a much more pronounced manner on Persephone’s lighter colored suit. Bits of matter landed right into the glasses of whiskey and the martini, staining the alcohol a dark, rich red that bordered on black.

The glass the man held in his hand slipped out of his grip and shattered on the sticky wooden floor. And then the body fell backwards from the force of the bullet and the demanding force of gravity, landed squarely on his back, head cracking on the boards as the blood leaked out like a lazy little river, pooling around Hades’ smooth black leather shoes and the rough brown leather of Persephone’s. Coins fell from his pocket and rolled around the floor, bumping against the shoes. The man’s eyes were clouded like a dead fish from where he lay at their feet.

As the two sides erupted into a larger fight that escalated to a chair thrown out the window and spilled out into the street, the sounds of bullets whizzing through the iar as more fell to the ground in a silly little dispute, Persephone licked the spot of blood on his hand and smiled as Hades nuzzled gently against his cheek. Then Hades turned around with a self-satisfied smirk reminiscent of a cat that was proud to have knocked over its owner’s pride possession. He gestured to the body on the ground and the fight outside and then looked at Wednesday.

 _“There's_ a war for you, Glad-O-War,” he said in an absolutely infuriating tone against the rim of his bloody cocktail. “Rejoice, and be glad in it.”

Wednesday scoffed, turning leave but no before saying with a casual nod of his head, “Enjoy your _six months_ of sunshine before your skies grow gray and cold again.”

He could feel the iciness from the glares as he left through the back door, cursing Death and his Life under his breath.

 

 

“Do I know you?” Will Graham asked, and Wednesday smiled at those piercing blue eyes that he’d recognize anywhere.

“Perhaps,” he said out loud, leaning in the doorframe. “Were you in the Astoria neighborhood in Queens, in a quaint Greek restaurant, somewhere back in ‘87?”

Will had a confused look on his face. “Um, no.”

 _Yes you were,_ Wednesday thought. “Oh. You just reminded me of someone, I suppose. You here to see Dr. Lecter?”

“I have a standing appointment,” Will said coolly. “And you are…?”

“An old friend. I must say,” Wednesday said with a raise of an eyebrow. “You look like someone’s drained all of the sunshine out of your face.”

A slight smile escaped from Will’s lips, along with the driest remains of a laugh. “Observant, you’re obviously one of his friends. I’m Will. Will Graham.”

“Ah,” Wednesday said with a nod. “Congratulations on your release, it’s not often a killer saves a life.”

Will rolled his eyes as he finally stepped into the house and across the threshold as Shadow came out of the bathroom, after a mostly successful attempt to gather himself. He was as surprised as Will was with the other’s presence.

“Shadow, this is Will Graham,” Wednesday said as an introduction. “Will Graham, this is Shadow Moon. I think you’ll have a lot in common to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I hate to give you all such a short chapter, but it would seem too all-over-the-place if I left it all in one piece. So I hope you enjoyed this little background with some good ol' fashioned blood and gore, and I'll see you all soon with Shadow and Will having a much-needed group session about weird dreams and significant others doing shitty things.
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadow and Will meet and have a heart-to-heart. They need it.

_ You look like someone’s drained all the sunshine out of your face. _

Shadow heard these words as he emerged from the bathroom, having splashed water on his face to try and bring himself back to reality. When he stepped out, he noticed a new character had joined the stage. Dark brown curls and when he turned in the direction of the closing bathroom door, Shadow was taken aback by the deep blue eyes staring all the way into his very soul. It was as though he were looking through him, down into his core, over each and every organ and system, cataloguing how he worked and how he ticked. And yet, it wasn’t unsettling, not like Lecter’s glare that felt like you were being skewered.

Wednesday did the introductions, and left the room after stating that they might get along. Will Graham rubbed his temple with his hand and sighed. “I need a drink. You want one?”

“No thanks,” Shadow said, following him into the study where Will poured a few fingers of whiskey into a glass. “You, uh, you one of Dr. Lecter’s patients?”

Will paused before he took a drink. “Yes,” he said firmly, draining the glass and then pouring a little more in. “I’m surprised you haven't seen my face, everyone else apparently has.”

Now Shadow knew what had been nagging at him since he first saw Will. “Oh. _Oh!_ You’re, you’re-”

“The guy that _didn’t_ kill all those people?” Will said dryly, a wry smile on his lips. Shadow found himself smiling a little as well. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“News said that the Ripper himself provided evidence to let you go.” Shadow knew all about the Ripper case. Low-Key had been following the case closely, reading all of the newspapers he could get ahold of.

_ “What I’d give to see inside a mind like that,” he said once, tapping on Will’s mugshot splashed across the front page. “That is one conflicted guy, he thinks he’s gotta pick a side. Good or evil. Organization versus chaos. He’s just gotta understand that those ain’t black and white concepts, and that it’s cool to walk the line, y’know?” _

That smile turned a little sad as Will tilted his glass back and forth, letting the amber liquid slosh against the sides. “You could say that. He did, in a way.”

Shadow narrowed his eyes. He’s been around the block, he know when someone isn’t telling you the whole truth, thinking it’s better than a lie.

It’s not. It’s worse.

“You know who the Ripper is, don’t you?” he said softly. Will stilled for a moment. “I’m not gonna ask who it is, don’t worry, it’s just -” Shadow takes a deep breath, “-I mean I just got out of prison, too, you know.”

Will looks interested now. “For what? What’d you do? You’re not a killer.”

“Neither are you,” Shadow argues, but Will just shrugs.

“I - I’m not the Ripper,” he says finally. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not a killer, exactly.”

“Shot that Hobbs guy, right?”

“Yeah.” Then it was quiet for a few more moments. The only sounds were the ticks of the clock hanging by the mantle. Shadow broke the silence, extending a metaphorical hand.

“That doesn’t make you a killer, you know.”

Will looked up, slightly surprised. “It doesn't? That’s a life that I snuffed out, you know.”

“It’s not like he didn’t, well, deserve it, I guess. It was a punishment, the divine kind.”

“A reckoning?” Will offers, leaning up against the fireplace. There's just the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. Shadow responds in kind.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Will’s smile turns back to bittersweet as he looks down into his glass. “You know I promised Hannibal a reckoning?”

Will was the first person that Shadow had heard use Lecter’s first name. He was afraid to say it, he may appear in a mirror. He shook that thought from his mind. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d he do to you?”

Another pause. “Have you-” he seemed to be gathering his thoughts and letting them out in little sighs “-have you ever trusted someone? _Really_ trusted them? They’re supposed to be your paddle, your support, something to help you wake up in the morning. Understand your mind in such a way that you can understand yourself?”

Shadow nodded, thinking about those time lying bed with Laura, thinking they knew each other inside and out.

“And then they get you sent away. And suddenly that sense of security and calmness gets ripped out from under you so fast you can’t catch yourself, and the bitterness rises in your throat like bile.” Will laughs then, but with nothing behind it. Not mirth, not joy, but not anger wither. Just - just the appearance of a laugh so as not to appear hopeless. “You know what that feels like?”

Shadow nods again, offering his own hopeless laugh. “Yeah, yeah I do. I had, uh, well, I went to jail for attempted robbery, got caught and served my time, got let out two days early because my wife, Laura, she - she -”

“Wasn’t waiting for you when you got back out?”

“She died.”

“My condolences.”

“Thanks. But it’s - it’s not that she’s dead, she - she cheated on me.”

“With someone else, who trusted you, too.” Now even Will’s tone itself is bitter. “Who tried to see the best in you even when you don't see it in yourself. Yeah, yeah I know what that feels like, too. And you’re still working through it, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Shadow sighed. “But I - this is fucked up, isn’t? - I still...love her. In a way, you know? I love her. Do you love-”

Will drained his glass again, groaning somewhere in the back of his throat. A non-answer, obviously a sore subject. Shadow wasn’t going to press further, in fact, he was ready to turn around and go to Wednesday and tell him that they should get going, not overstay their welcome, but then Will spike again just as Shadow turned around.

“How did you sleep? While you were in prison?”

Shadow paused. “I - I had weird dreams.”

“Like what?”

“An...orchard of bones?” he offered, shrugging. “I know it’s weird, I don’t know what it means. And some voice always asks me if I believe.”

“In what?”

“I don’t know that either,” Shadow said softly. “What about you?”

“Do I believe or about my dreams?”

“Either or.”

Will looked down at the whiskey bottle, but ignored it in favor of setting his glass down. He looked up at Shadow, and said simply, “I don’t know what I believe. And all my dreams are about drowning. Or changing. I don't know, either. All I know is that some things, once they've happened, need to stay buried.”

Shadow's mind flashed an image of Laura sitting on his motel bed, very alive while still dead.

_ Hi puppy. _

"Yeah. Yeah, they should," he swallowed and followed Will as he left the room and entered the kitchen, where Wednesday and Hannibal were having quiet conversation. Shadow noticed immediately that the rawest emotion that wasn’t cloaked in some vague air of mystery was when he looked up from the stove and made eye contact with Will.

In that instant, he swore they had an entire conversation with no words.

_ How are you?  _

_ I’m fine/No, I’m not.  _

_ You’re here.  _

_ I’m glad you’re here. _

And something underneath that surface appearance. Something like deep, intense longing.

Shadow snapped back into the present when Wednesday asked, “So where do you live, Will? Baltimore as well?”

“No,” Will said simply as actually leaned on the counter where Lecter was working. Lecter made no attempt to move him. “I’m in Wolf Trap.”

Wednesday hummed into his drink, closing his eyes as he took a sip. _Makes sense,_ he thought. _Surrounded by all those pines, eternally green even when the winter kills all of the other plants and leave a barren wasteland behind. A little reminder of life in the middle of death. Fitting._ “That’s a nice area.”

Will shrugged as he watched Lecter finish adding some sort of dark red sauce over the cut up bits of meat. And then he reached out with his fingers and just took a piece, popping it into his mouth like a piece of candy. Like it wasn’t anything at all, when Shadow had been explicitly warned to not eat anything at all. He lingered a bit, savoring the taste. Now it was unsettling, like he and Wednesday were somewhere they truly shouldn’t be. Interrupting a private time, a private place.

Wednesday, thankfully, finished his last glass of wine and announced, “It’s been wonderful to see you again, doctor. But we must be on our way. Don’t want to disturb your dinner, after all.”

“Thank you. A pleasure, as always,” Hannibal nodded in agreeance, too preoccupied with pouring a drink for Will to offer a handshake goodbye. Shadow got the idea that was a polite way to not offer one. “And a pleasure to meet you, Shadow.”

Shadow nodded. “Thank you.” He didn’t know what he had to thank Lecter for, but he felt like he should, regardless. “Goodbye,” he said to Will, who tilted his drink in his direction in a goodbye.

“We’ll show ourselves out,” Wednesday said, guiding them both to the door, grabbing their coats before they stepped outside. Outside, Shadow took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air and found himself able to breath for the first time in what felt like hours. Wednesday tossed him the keys, and he got into the passenger seat of the car.

Not far down the road, Shadow finally asked, “Why were we there? Why did you need to see him?”

“Because if you’re going to fight a war, it’s good to have Death on your side. But he’s always so damn neutral, he’s only on his side and his sunshine’s.”

“Sunshine?” Shadow asked sincerely. “What the _fu-”_

“I need you to do one more thing for me when we get back to the motel,” Wednesday interrupted. “Nothing big, and I’ll handle the rest. Then you can enjoy your pie.”

Shadow rolled his eyes before he remembered he was supposed to be watching the road. He watched as the very last bits of the sunset were smothered out by the darkness of night. “What do you need me to do?”

Wednesday pulled a card he had stolen from Hannibal Lecter’s rolodex, reading the name of the insurance man on the front, then flipping it over to read the recipe for braised beef tripe with caramelized onions. He smiled to himself.

“I’m gonna need you to dig some holes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh :0 What's gonna happen? Tune in next time!
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As I stated in the title and my very first introduction, the blood must flow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood and vomit. (Yes, there will be blood. And vomit. Just a warning in advance, now, on with the show...)

_This is bullshit,_ Shadow thought, as he dug into the forest floor. Granted, he’d been thinking that a lot since he had joined Wednesday, but digging holes at nine o’clock at night in a dark forest far back behind their motel was a level he hadn’t been prepared to deal with.

Wednesday, being a cryptic asshole as per usual, had given him a bag and told him what to do with the contents. He had to take the car into town for something. Shadow had rolled his eyes but went along with it. Wednesday just did what he wanted, and honestly, Shadow just wanted to go to sleep after this so he’d go through with this particular bullshit.

He dug two holes, eight inches deep and four inches wide, with a good amount of space in the middle of them. Then, he took the two gold American Eagle coins, and against his better judgement considering their worth, he put one in each hole, not covering them back over with the dirt. Reaching back into the bag, he pulled out a bottle of a rich red wine, uncorked it, and poured half of the contents into each hole. He then recorked it, stuck it back in the bag, stood up, and headed back to the motel. He nodded to the man at the front desk, obviously too into his porno mag to really care what Shadow was doing. Shadow slipped into his room, trying to be quiet so as not to disturb his neighbor’s sleep. Smiling to himself, he reached inside of the mini fridge unit and pulled out his piece of apple pie and finally sat down to enjoy it.

It was a delicious piece of pie, simple, full of freshly-cut apples and a healthy dose of cinnamon. Even ice cold, it was perfect. Shadow ate it on the table with the wobbly leg and the chair that seemed ready to break the second he sat on it. But it didn’t matter. He sat there and enjoyed his pie in the dim, yellow light in the relative silence that was only broken up by the low, muffled hum of the TV from another room left on while the occupant slept. It was a brief moment of peace, and Shadow savored every second of it. Once he finished his treat, he bundled up the trash and put it in the wastebasket, and made his way to the cubicle that apparently counted as a bathroom in this place. Before he could even turn the faucet to wash his face, there was a knock at the door.

Groaning, Shadow called out, “Who is it?”

“Shadow.” It was Wednesday, but he sounded a little...defeated? “Open the door, please.”

Knowing better, Shadow crossed the room and opened the door to a fine mess, if you asked him. Wednesday stood there, looking a little sheepish as a gun was pressed against his right temple by a very pissed off man in a cheap suit.

“Shadow, huh?” he asked, looking unimpressed and his smile forced out like he had to take a shit. “Where’s my fucking money, Shadow?”

“Huh?” Shadow asked, honestly too tired to deal with this at the moment. “What money?”

“The money your _boss_ here took from me. Was bragging about it at the bar, and now I’d like it back, please.”

“I don’t have your money,” Shadow said matter-of-factly.

“Of course you don’t, _idiot,_ you fucking buried it like he told you to. And you’re going to take us there before I decide to blow his brains out in front of you before doing the same to you.” He poked Wednesday with the gun again. _“Now.”_

“Shadow,” Wednesday said carefully. “Where you buried that money, please take us there.”

Shadow closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then nodded, getting his key from the side table and making his way outside. He took the lead, showing all of the the way to the site. It was far enough away that the garish neon lights were barely visible from their place among the pines.

The man finally moved away to look for his money, and Shadow watched as Wednesday’s entire demeanor completely shifted. His air of concern and fear was gone, replaced with the cool, steely gaze reminiscent of a bird of prey watching a mouse scurry along. The man looked at the two holes that Shadow had dug, then pointed the gun back at Wednesday.

“What the fuck is this? What are you running?”

Wednesday just looked back at the buisness card, reading the recipe on the back. “No wonder he wanted tripe, wouldn’t get much brains out of you, that’s for sure.”

“What-”

A smile crept across Wednesday’s face, and he let the card flutter to the ground. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked up at the sky. Shadow was hesitant to ask what he was doing, he seemed somewhere else mentally.

“What is this?” the other man demanded, apparently now becoming creeped out by the whole fucking affair. Wednesday’s good eye slowly rolled to give him a knowing look, his smile twisting into a smirk.

 

 

_Somewhere in America, 1964_

 

“You know the Surgeon General has come out to say cigarettes are bad for you,” the woman in the pink sundress sneered at Persephone. He paid her no mind, instead paying the street vendor for his new pack of menthols. “And the mint they put in there is pure chemical waste.”

“Mint is already a useless weed,” Persephone snapped back, ignoring Wednesday’s amused chuckle from beside him. “It was my intention to make it so, but now everyone uses it to cover all of their dirty little secrets. Fitting, really.” He said this as he lit up one of the cigarettes.

The woman rolled her eyes, her sneer getting even nastier, if that were possible. “You know death will be coming for you if you keep smoking those?”

“Oh,” Wednesday interjected, unable to keep the mirth out of his voice. “Don’t worry about that. Death comes to and _for_ him every night, sweetheart, regardless of the smoking habit. Isn't that right?”

Persephone let out a half-laugh, breathing the fresh smoke right back into Wednesday’s face as the woman stomped off. “Thank you for that,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his mouth.

“Anytime, sunshine.”

 

 

 

“What is this?” the man shouted, panic seeping into his voice. “Say something!”

Wednesday kept his smirk on his face as he made a sweeping gesture with his arm in a parody of a bow. He cleared his throat as a low rumble of thunder was heard. It was getting darker as stormclouds rolled in to hide the stars from the sight before them.

“Sometimes, Shadow,” he said, turning to the man in question. “All it takes is just one. Just one person to believe.”

“Believe in what?” Shadow asked. Thunder rolled by again.

“Do you remember the moral of Nancy’s Greek tragedy?” Wednesday asked instead of answering. Shadow nodded.

“You can’t fight destiny. Destiny can be a place, an event, or it can even be a person. But you can’t fight it, just like a magnet can’t fight its attraction.”

Wednesday nodded, keeping his good eye trained on the confused man he had lured out here with the lie of stealing his stolen money. His bad eye stared into the blackness of the sky.

“Faith without a little blood is not enough, Shadow. Sometimes blood is what is demanded in return for protection. Protection from everything else, or from the god himself. In order for a resurrection, Shadow, _the blood must flow.”_

“What needs to be resurrected?” Shadow asked in a hushed tone. Wednesday’s eye seemed to sparkle.

“Spring and fall are interconnected, Shadow,” Wednesday said without answering. “They always have been. There is nothing purely cold or warm about either season. There are always warm days in fall and cold ones in spring. Because it doesn’t want to let go, it doesn't know what it wants. But it deserves to choose instead of going back and forth, _over_ and _over,_ don’t you think?”

Shadow didn’t have a chance to answer when Wednesday declared in much louder, deeper voice, “This death is for the necessary force of death itself, for without it, there is no life. And for life, for without it, death would not exist.” Then he let out a low whistle in the bone silence of the pines.

Shadow couldn't tell what was happening when the man started shrieking, he could only make out his arms flapping around, twisting and turning in the darkness.

But then the lightning began, and Shadow saw everything before him between the flashes of lightning.

There were two ravens, ones Shadow swore he had seen before, attacking the man before him. They pecked at his face, his stomach, his arms as he tried to cover his eyes. It was horrific, but Shadow barely had a chance to react when one of them took its beak and pecked right into the jugular vein.

And the blood flowed. Oh, it flowed.

The man collapsed onto the ground, perfectly in the space between the two holes. The blood flowed into both holes, filling them to the brim and so it ran out over the soil and came close to Shadow, who then stepped away and snapped back to reality.

“What - what have you done?” he gasped, the horror starting to _really_ sink in. “What-”

“That’s not murder,” Wednesday said gently, more relaxed now. “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. You didn’t lay a hand on him, you’re fine.”

“You - what did you do?” Shadow said, his voice almost breaking. Wednesday put a hand on his arm to calm him.

“I didn’t do anything, Shadow. The police can’t arrest you for divine intervention. Come on, let’s go. You need some rest after today.”

Whenever Shadow closed his eyes as he tried to sleep back in his crappy motel room, all he saw was a flood of blood coming towards him, one that was almost impossible to run from.

 

 

 

Will was leaning against the counter, giving the appearance of relaxation as his mind whirred around nonstop. Hannibal was pouring a glass of wine after he had topped off Will’s whiskey as dinner finished in the oven. It was quiet, it was peaceful.

And it all felt like a _lie._

He hadn’t made up his mind if he was going to leave with Hannibal or if he was going to help Jack catch him and put him in prison where he belonged. It should be an easy decision.

It wasn’t.

He looked up to try and break the silence when he noticed Hannibal staring down into the center of his wine glass, swirling the dark red liquid that seemed to reflect in his eyes. They seemed darker than usual, but with a spark in the center like a glowing embers of a fire. His mouth was twitched in a half-snarl, his head tilted to accommodate it. Like he was savoring the taste of a freshly slaughtered pig.

Will was about to ask if he was alright, sensing that he was not altogether there at the moment, when he tasted the bittersweet flavor of wine. The wine taste faded soon enough, a bit of it lingered as the taste of freshly spilled blood filled his mouth, like the liquid itself had been poured into it. He moved his neck, stretching the muscles and relaxing again, feeling oddly _sated_ for no apparent reason as he found that his eyes had closed of their own accord. And for a just a moment, the whirring in his head slowed to a stop.

When he reopened his eyes, he was staring back into his reflection of the stainless steel of the refrigerator. But it didn’t look like him. Sure, it was his body, his face, his eyes. But somehow, that reflection felt removed from himself. Like it was staring back, a sneaky smile that wasn’t his, a gleam in his eye that wasn’t his.

Suddenly, his mind collided with a whole _slew_ of memories. None of them were his, as far as he could tell.

 

_Warm grass under his feet, the smell of wildflowers_

_Falling, falling somewhere dark and cold_

_Cold stone walls, but warm breath on his neck_

_The taste of something sweet._

_Holding someone’s cold hand._

_Feeling adored._

 

(all of these feelings and memories being felt as they whipped past his eyes like a demented slide presentation, overwhelming all of his actual senses)

 

_Burning, minty cigarette smoke_

_The sound of bird cawing mixed with shrieking laughter_

_The taste of blood_

_Silk sheets_

_Old, worn sheets_

 

(Will looks down and sees a ring on his finger. He hadn’t been wearing a ring)

 

_I will never let you go_

_I love you_

_I love you_

_Drowning_

_Drowning in something cold and dark that chills you to the core and fills your lungs with-_

 

(his lungs are filled with something that is not air. he looks back at his reflection that has all the appearance of himself but something is off and he can’t put a finger on it but it’s not important because his reflection drops his whiskey glass)

 

Will is brought back to the present with the force of a car crash as his glass slips out of his fingers and shatters against the floor.

He barely registers Hannibal’s concerned, “Will?”, only that it pulls at _something_ at his chest that is not helping the state of his lungs at the moment. He coughs, keeps coughing, trying to work it out when something is overturned in his stomach and the next thing he knows he almost trips on broken glass as he races for the bathroom and locks it behind him before he stands in front of the toilet, coughing all the way

He coughs once more and breathes out black water that tastes like wasted time. _Bittersweet._

He blinks and it’s still there in the bowl.

He breathed that out of his lungs.

He’s _not_ hallucinating.

Will doesn’t even have time to process _that_ before something _lurches_ in the pit of his stomach that brings him to his knees and squeeze his eyes closed.

He gags once, twice, and then _retches_  into the bowl, dragging up something buried deep, deep inside of him.

When he can finally, finally, open his eyes, there are six perfect, glistening red pomegranate seeds floating there, fresh and ripe, before sinking back into the dark water, far from view. He flushed the toilet, watching the water swirl away.

It’s confusing, it doesn't make sense, but when Will stands back up, it’s as though a weight has been lifted. He’s not sure if he’s ever been able to breathe so easily. Everything feels lighter, like - like when you scuba dive and the pressure messes with your head and you feel drunk as you sink _down, down, down._

Will rinses his mouth out in the sink, looks up at his reflection, and smiles with satisfaction as it matches again.

He gets one step out of the bathroom door before he collapses, and the last thing he sees and feels as he passes out is Hannibal’s arms catching him, not letting him fall on the hardwood, perfectly varnished floorboards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're confused by the mint comment, in Greek mythology there was a nymph named Minthe that attracted a fleeting glance from Hades. And Persephone, in her jealous rage, trampled her under her foot to become a mint plant. Fun!
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I see my end in my beginning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So inspiration from this particular piece came from this wonderful [gifset](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com/post/161854819504/stalkandlure-i-thought-it-was-a-tiny-earthquake)! that came across my dash not long ago. Give them a reblog, they do great work!

_ Somewhere, sometime _

 

 

The earth was still soft from the recent rainstorm, and Persephone was lying on his back in the warm sun and running his fingers through the grass. It was calm and peaceful and the sky was blue without a cloud to hide behind.

It was perfect.

It was _dull._

Persephone traced his hand through the grass again, and watched as the flowers grew up around his fingers, curling and weaving in between them. Blue blossoms, with thorns on the stems. All of _his_ plants grew thorns, he never knew why.

He was just bored, under the clear blue sky and warm earth, _itchy_ to do something, only he wasn’t sure what. What he _was_ sure of, though, was that growing flowers and spending time in the fields weren’t all that he wanted. There was a part of him that he only expressed through the thorns of the flowers.

Twirling his fingers in the stems, Persephone hissed as one thorn snagged just under his nail, breaking the skin and causing a little blood to leak out. Rolling his eyes, he dug his nails into the dirt out of sheer boredom and frustration, letting the blood seep into the earth before he rolled his neck and sat up. He ran his fingers through his hair to get it out of his eyes before getting to his feet and going along his way.

The blood stained the grass below him and the earth swallowed it.

 

 

Today, Persephone walks through the forest, in the warm breeze and sunlight, and sees a dead man lying on the ground. He had been traveling, it would seem, but his thread of life had been cut with no regard to his convenience. A pity. He didn’t really feel pity, though. What’s done is done, he had always been taught that. What is will always be. Life and death, polar opposites that always circle each other in a dance that never ends. Persephone had never been up close and personal with death to this extent at this point. The closest before this had been a few wilted flowers that had to be plucked out of the dirt to not spoil it for the healthy flowers. Death as much as a necessity as life.

Persephone looks down at the cold corpse before him, and bends down to close the man’s eyes. Brushing over his eyelids, bright red cypress flower vines spring up from the ground and wrap around the body. The flowers bloom, then, like little dots of blood. Persephone smiles.

A cool breeze comes from behind him, and he turns, causing a lock of his hair to fall across his face. There’s nothing there, so he brushes it out of his face and continues on his way.

The flowers wilt as soon as he leaves, the petals falling to the ground as they dry to a crisp.

 

Today, Persephone is alone again. Demeter is getting better about letting him go off on his own, but it was a struggle. She would always tell him that it was dangerous, to be out alone, especially in the dark.

He promised to be back on time, and set off for a certain clearing he’d been fond of in the forest. When he arrived, he laid out on his back in the soft grass and just relaxed. A rose sprung up from where he traced a circle with his hand in the dirt. He smiled a little, plucking the rose up, twirling it it in his grip, when an idea struck him. With his other hand, he dug a small hole in the dirt before squeezing the flower, stem and all, in his hand. The juice from the rose and the blood caused from the thorns ran down against his hand, dripping into the hole in the ground, forming a little puddle. Persephone leaned on his clean hand and watched the blood slowly drain away as it was absorbed and welcomed into the earth.

As it drained away, a perfect ruby, cut like a heart, was left in its place.

Persephone moved from his position, curious as to how that jewel came to be there. He reached forward and removed it, dusting off all the extra dirt to examine the gem. It was perfect, and the darkest red he’d ever seen, matching the color of the blood that was still staining his fingers. He found himself smiling at the little prize, and as he got up to leave and be on his way again, he left another flower bud in its place.

The earth swallowed it as soon as he vanished from sight.

 

For the next few days that carry into weeks, Persephone would make an indent in the ground and leave a flower in it, then come back later to see that it had been replaced with a jewel. It was almost a game at this point, and it gave him something new to look forward to each day.

Today, Persephone made his way back into the forest where he had found the corpse before, and found that it was now nothing but a tangled mess of cypress flower vines. The blooms themselves had choked to death because they were so close, with no air to breath. He traced his hand over the vines and they moved away, straightening themselves out and wrapping around nearby logs and bushes. The red blooms swelled back up and the petals reopened, embracing the traces of sunlight that came through the trees. Persephone looked down at where the corpse had been and was surprised to see that it was gone.

Instead, there was an opening where it had lain on the ground before, but there was no end to the pit that Persephone could see.

He smiled, not really knowing why. He set down all of the flowers he’d been carrying by the side of the path, and considered his choices.

He could just go on his way and ignore this strange thing, or leave, find Demeter again, and go back to the clearing.

That sounded dull, in all honesty. And besides, there was a pull he couldn’t exactly ignore, and he just _wanted…_

Persephone didn’t finish that thought before he closed his eyes and let himself fall forward, right into the center of the abyss.

He was falling, falling, falling, and even when he opened his eyes for a brief moment, it was pure darkness. He closed them again and felt the air grow colder and colder as he had a fleeting thought about what would happen when he reached the ground. It would surely be as ice-cold as the air now. Eventually he lost track of how long he had been falling, of where he would end up.

He didn’t hit the ground, or some water, no.

_Someone_ caught him.

“You must be quite mad to do something as reckless as this,” said the voice belonging to the cool, strong arms that were still holding onto him. Persephone still could barely see the outline of the man, but still knew who he was and where he was, and so smiled as he was carefully lowered to the ground so he could stand. 

“Perhaps I am,” he retorted, “But why were _you_ waiting at this particular spot, then, hmm? I would imagine you are quite busy most of the time, far too busy to be waiting for something.”

“I am very good at being patient,” was the response Persephone got, just as quick as his. Then, he added as an afterthought, “However, it depends on what one is waiting for, you know. My patience happened to run out this very day.”

“And just what what was it that made your patience run thin this day?” he said, quirking an eyebrow he knew was visible even in the darkness. He felt the smile he got in return.

_“You._ As a matter of fact, I was about to drag you down here myself.”

“Why do such a thing?” Persephone said in mock shock.

“Because I was _compelled_ to. I don’t make offerings to just _anyone,_ Persephone.”

“And you know my name as well, Hades, how _forward,”_ Persephone teased, moving to push at his shoulder, but deciding at the last moment to simply rest his hand there. “You needn’t trouble yourself, however. You didn't grab me and pull me down here; I _jumped.”_

 

 

Hannibal carefully laid Will down on the bed in the master bedroom after he had fainted coming out of the bathroom. He felt his forehead, no fever. Exhaustion, perhaps.

Against his better judgment and going along with a pull in his chest, he brushed a lock of hair from Will’s face, revealing a small, genuine smile.

The pull grew stronger. 

Hannibal felt himself smile in return, unable to fight it for a few brief moments before smothering it until it was forced back into a frown. But he couldn’t make himself walk away yet, not until he found himself draping a blanket over Will, resisting the urge to smile at Will’s smile. Instead, he turned around and went back downstairs, looking at the dinner he had prepared.

He poured a glass of wine and retreated to the living room, and started into the fireplace, fighting internally against intrusive memories that for the life of him, he could not recall. The lamb was cold by now, a pitiful last supper by his standards. He would clean it later. Later...

The floral arrangement on the dining room table wilted, and a cypress flower petal landed on the place setting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream... ([ for your listening pleasure ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8waJ7W3QcJc))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's been so long since I updated, but my dumb writer's brain had writer's block for this entire damn chapter, but on the bright side, now I have the rest of the plot mapped out, so I should be able to have another update out before long! In the meantime, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S. I recommend playing this song in the background as you listen, as it is the one referenced in the fic itself: [There But For You Go I](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U2BBxrlh2Mw)

_Somewhere in America, in the dog days of summer, 1947_

 

_Then I closed my eyes and saw the very reason why._

_I saw a man with his head bowed low._

_His heart had no place to go._

_I looked and I thought to myself with a sigh:_

_There but for you go I._

 

The man finished singing these words in front of the brass band behind him, crooning into the microphone as Jacquel made his way over to Hades, who was staring out of the window, ignoring the party behind him. It was vibrant and warm inside and outside, but it grew colder the closer he came to the window.

“How are you, friend?” Jacquel asked quietly, raising his glass of beer. Hades raised his own wineglass, a small smile at his lips.

“Existing, so there’s that,” he replied dryly, looking back into the garden. There wasn’t a lot to see with the darkness of night cloaking everything except for the streetlamp and the stars. “And not much more, I’m afraid.”

Jacquel nodded, turning back to watch the hum of the party, people laughing and talking and holding each other as they slow danced. The war had been over for a few years, but people were still riding out the waves of the joy of their victory. It made Jacquel smile, it did not affect Hades one way or the other. He simply sipped his wine and continued looking out into nothing. Jacquel resisted placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort. He knew it would do no good.

“How goes your practice?” he offers instead. Hades only smirks a little into his glass.

“You know as well as I do that I do not have a _practice,_ Jacquel. That’s what you do. All I do is exist.”

“There’s our difference,” Jaquel sighs, enjoying a sip of his drink. “I nurture, you are nature. With me, they are accepting of death, it is the next stage of life for them. It is not the end. With you, they believe that you are the end of days incarnate. Come to take them away from everything they love and care for, when you’re just as part of life as I am. Only I _mind,_ you consume.”

Hades gave a half nod. “They keep dying, but Jesus already saved so many from their sins, so they don’t come to me anymore. I’ve had to resort to reaping them to consume myself.”

The dark maroon tint to Hades’ eyes was a bit more apparent when he said that, looking into his glass as though the source of his disgust was at the bottom of it. “Times are hard, and the days have grown longer and longer, and warmer. I despise it.”

“There must always be balance,” Jaquel declares, smoothing out a crease on his slate-gray jacket. "Balance between the light and the dark, even if neither side wants to share."

He nods an ‘excuse me’ to Hades, before moving over to where Ibis was intently studying the cheese plate. They shared a small, sweet smile together, and Hades turned away once again back to the window as the band started up again. He would have slapped the warm hand that suddenly touches his shoulder, if he hadn't recognized the touch and the question that reaches his ears through the music:

“Don’t you want to dance?”

He smiled to himself, finishing his drink and turning to see Persephone extending a hand with a smile of his own. He set down the glass on a nearby table and they easily blended in with the crowd.

“What are you doing here?” Hades asked as he rested a hand on Persephone’s waist, pulling him closer so no one could eavesdrop on this moment. “There’s over a month and a half left before the equinox.”

Persephone laughed and it sounded like sunshine, leaning into the touch. “I can’t miss you as much as you miss me? That hardly seems fair.”

“You miss me?” Hades teases. Persephone rolls his eyes but the smile doesn’t fade.

“You don’t have to pretend that you don’t,” he teased back, moving his other hand to rub just underneath Hades’ collar. “I fill a void in your life.”

“I suppose,” Hades returned, easily spinning them around and blocking out any glances from the other pairs. “And to what do I owe the honor of dancing with you this evening?”

Persephone’s eyes gleamed with just a bit of mischief when he leaned in closer, just briefly brushing against his lips as he whispered, “It can be cold for just one night. And besides, I’m _starving.”_

 

_I saw a man who had never known a love that was all his own._

_I thought as I thanked all the stars in the sky:_

_There, but for you, go I._

  


Hannibal found himself humming a song he had no memory of ever hearing as he stared into the fireplace, running his fingers over his drawings as he tried to uncover hidden memories he had no memory of burying.

 

 

Will woke up and thought he was still dreaming.

He was not in his own bed at his own home, no. He thought that he was still wrapped up in darkness that he couldn’t remember if it was actually the air around him or sheets on a bed in a place he couldn’t finger on. He blinked a few more times than necessary and fought to get to a full sitting sitting position, as he was tangled in a blanket he didn’t remember falling asleep in. He didn’t even remember falling asleep here.

All he could remember was falling, and someone catching him.

He turned and examined the clock that said it was 1:37 in the morning, when it was still dark and no one should still be out and about.

It felt, though, like he’d been asleep for years and years and was now finally awake.

Will untangled himself from the dark confines of the bed and stood up, working his neck one way and then the next, trying to regain his bearings. He breathed out through his mouth, the memory of what had just occurred resurfacing in his mind.

He shook himself back to whatever level of reality he was experiencing and headed down the stairs, taking extra care to not make a sound. This was significantly easier than he would have anticipated, as the boards on the stairs didn’t even creak or give in any sort of way. After he descended from the staircase, and slipped into the kitchen, not bothering to flip on the light switch, so the only light came in through the window in the form of moonlight and the stars.

The kitchen was spotless, as expected, Hannibal must have cleaned it while he was asleep. They hadn’t had dinner, he remembered that. He wasn’t hungry, though. On the contrary, he felt like - he felt like -

_Like a covenant had been broken. Like a contract had expired._

Running his fingers over the perfect countertops, Will traced indiscernible patterns over the granite, looking at the clean dishes drying on the rack, at the clean dishcloth neatly folded and set on the side of the sink, until his eyes caught sight of the fruitbowl sitting beside the knife block. He went over to the bowl, and examined the contents. At first glance, it appeared to be filled with honeycrisp apples, just on the good side of ripe before they start to turn. But hidden underneath was a different fruit, and Will reached inside to pick it up and expose it to the light to get a better look. His fingers wrap around the fruit and lifts it up, cupping the bottom of it with his hand and stares.

It’s a pomegranate.

 

_Somewhere, sometime_

 

“They know I’m here,” Persephone murmurs into the kiss, not in a teasing way, not entirely. Hades gave a half-growl, making Persephone smile in return, knowing full well that he’s egging him on. His back is pressed against the cool, scratchy texture of the fall behind them.

_“Stay.”_

It is not a demand, or a plea, but falls right square between the two. No more words are said for a while.

“What will become of me if I stay?” Persephone asks breathlessly after they were lost in each other in those few moments.

“You will have everything you could ever desire, up to and including command of the Furies themselves, who will seek vengeance upon anyone you wish.”

Persephone pretends to ponder this for a moment, still smiling slightly. “And what if I desire your heart, above all other things?”

Hades finally smiles, and laughs, dark like the rest of his personality, but now a shed of light has seeped into him. “You already have that, my love.”

It’s then Persephone reaches out with his free hand to pluck one, single seed from a nearby pomegranate. He places it between his teeth and smiles as he bites down, a drop of blood-red juice running down his lips.

Hades kisses him gently…

 

 

 

...and Will opens his eyes again, setting the fruit back down onto the counter, and in one fluid motion, removes a knife from the block. Holding the knife loosely in one hand, he turns around, not surprised in the least to see Hannibal standing on the opposite side of the counter. Rather, he had been expecting to see him there.

Neither of tem make a move for several moments, just content to stand there and study each other.

Finally, Will breaks the silence, breathing out his apprehension. “I’m going to ask you a question,” he states. “And you’re going to answer me _honestly.”_

“Am I?” Hannibal replies. “Why would I?”

“Because _I’m_ asking you,” Will declares. There’s the barest hint of acknowledgement from Hannibal before he nods outright. Will takes another deep breath, holding unwavering eye contact with Hannibal.

“How long-” his question almost catches in his throat, but he pushes forward.

“-How long have you been in love with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O_O SHIT CLIFFHANGER AGAIN AAAAAAA I KNOW but I hope you still liked it!
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations and confessions.
> 
> Music choice for this chapter: [Kelly Clarkson's cover of /It's Quiet Uptown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DK4QRnBiTPA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, so this is shorter than a usual chapter because the final two chapters will be quite long and go into a lot more details and metaphorical climaxes, so consider this our bridge chapter to what is to come, and a little bit oaf a breakthrough for our dear Murder Husbands. Hope you all enjoy!

_ How long have you been in love with me? _

Hannibal unconsciously works his jaw, nearly undetectable unless one had a trained eye. He had not been anticipating this question, evidently, Will noted as he subtly clutched the knife in his hand a tad tighter. Hannibal moved forward just enough to rest the fingertips of his left hand on the counter edge, and appeared to be chewing his thoughts thoroughly before speaking. It was dead silent.

Finally, Hannibal did speak, smooth and measured words that were carefully chosen to bend the control of the room back to him. “Not ‘am I?’” he questioned in return. “Wouldn't you like to start with that question?”

“No,” Will said back, still not breaking eye contact. “I already know.”

“Tell me, then.” For once, his tone not included in a thin veil of narcissism and all-around _knowing,_ and an even thicker veil of curiosity, even if he already knew the answer. It’s not quite a plea, either, it’s -

Will doesn’t know what kind of emotion is being expressed, only that it is _raw._

Taking his free hand, he reached over and picks the pomegranate back up again. He needed something for his hands to fiddle with, to keep himself levelheaded. He rubs his thumb over the crown of the fruit before slicing through it with the knife.

“I think I’ve known for a while, now,” he adds, thinking he could find this funny if his heart wasn’t pumping so damn fast he could hear it in his ears. “I don’t think I wanted to admit it to myself, much like your own thought process, I would suppose.” Will takes a few steps forward himself, setting the pomegranate down on the counter, on the smooth granite barrier between the two of them. His eyes grow a little harder as he keep eye contact, skimming the knife on the hard surface of the fruit.

“You’re in love with me.” It’s a statement. The sky is blue, the sun rises in the east, up is the opposite of down, and _you’re in love with me._ It’s as much a law of nature as anything else.

Hannibal doesn’t break, but his fingers curl ever so slightly as he very nearly breathes out a _“yes.”_

_Yes._

Will knew this, he _knew_ this, but actually _hearing_ it is like a punch to the stomach, and is making his calm composure a little more difficult to maintain. But he continues, “I know that. But that’s not an answer. You’re deflecting.”

“Am I?”

“Hannibal,” Will presses, urgency creeping into his voice. “How _long_ have you been in love with me?”

Hannibal watches the knife in Will’s other hand trace around the crown opening of the pomegranate and finds the words slipping from his lips like water in a sieve.

“Since the first moment I laid eyes on you,” he admits, as though a dam has broken at long last and everything has come rushing out, all the intensity coming out as nothing more than a few soft words.

The knife suddenly comes down across the fruit, slicing it cleanly open down the middle so the two halves were evenly divided, the glistening red seeds visible in the moonlight. There’s the just the faintest hint of a tremor in Will’s hand as he set the knife down and let the red juice splash against the spotless counter. He closes his eyes for a brief second, gathering himself when he opened his eyes again, not letting his gaze waver.

“And _when_ was that?” he asks softly, tracing his fingers over the flesh of the fruit. Hannibal maintains the eye contact and their dance. But he doesn't speak, not for a few more moments. When he does, once again, it is measured and planned down to the last letter and syllable in an attempt to keep his mask on.

“Since the first time I saw you,” he repeats, more assuring than anything, as though he is trying to convince the both of them what to believe, “Since Jack Crawford’s office.”

Will breaks one pomegranate seed off of the fruit, lifting it up to examine it in the moonlight. All of the words he wants to say, what he needs to say, catch in his throat. All of those emotions well up all at once, and it almost hurts because he knows... _something._

_Something_ has shifted their dynamic. What was once a dance back and forth over every moral and ethical line possible has now _shifted,_ and now they are trapped an unfamiliar familiar territory. It feels like they’ve done this dance before, like they’ve gone through this time and time again. Like both of their hearts are laid out raw and dripping like the two pomegranate halves split open on the counter between them.

Maybe that’s why it feels easy, and yet _un_ easy, all at once.

He almost drops his gaze when he feels emotions welling up behind his eyes before he breathes most of them out, not before they catch on his vocal cords.

“No, it wasn’t,” he nearly chokes, a slightly hysterical smile appearing on his lips before he immediately shuts it down. _“No, it wasn’t.”_

And he slowly puts the seed in his mouth, chews, and swallows.

It’s dead silent again, and of course Hannibal breaks it.

“No, it wasn’t,” he agrees, gentle in a way that is frightening. He doesn't offer an explanation. Will doesn't need one, as he eats another seed, ripping off another from the membrane as he does so.

“I don’t know what I’m remembering,” he finally offers, breathing out again and feeling a little bit of that tension in his chest start to dissipate. “But I’m remembering something that I’ve buried.”

“What do you remember, Will?”

He chews on the seed and feels it starting to stain his teeth. “Drowning. Water rising up into my lungs, something settling in the pit of my stomach. Like I’ve broken a vow, a covenant, and now before me is a blank slate.”

He reaches out with his fingers again and realizes that he’s brushed against Hannibal’s hand, who had moved to the pomegranate now as well. Hannibal breaks off another seed and offers it wordlessly. Will accepts, eating the fourth seed, then the fifth.

“You’re supposed to leave,” he says in a near whisper. “ _You’re supposed to leave.”_

“Not without you.”

And if _that_ doesn’t resonate with that _something,_ Will thinks, almost wanting to cry.

“Then you know Freddie Lounds isn’t dead.”

The silence from Hannibal is absolutely deafening. “Yes.”

It doesn’t hurt any less than either of them thought it would, to hear that betrayal being said out loud. Will plucks the sixth seed from the pomegranate, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger so the juice runs down his hand.

“I don’t know what I’m remembering,” he repeats, mulling over his words and his thoughts. Then he looks up into Hannibal’s eyes and that something clicks.

He smiles, not a forced one, but a real one, even if it’s faint and still laced with a bit of pain from realizing _oh._

_Oh, that’s it. Oh, now I see. Oh, it can be simple,_ even if what they have, what they _are,_ doesn’t make any sense.

“But I know that I can’t turn you in,” he admits. “I know I can’t let you leave, either.”

“Then where does that leave us?” Hannibal asks, and Will can tell that he’s the one barely holding his breath now.

Will uses his free hand to reach out, just barely touching Hannibal’s hand, enough to say, _yes, it’s me._

_I’m here._

_ It’s - I don’t know if it’s okay, but it’s what we have, what we  _ are .

_ I can see you now. _

_ I can see  _ us _ now. _

Will eats the sixth pomegranate seed with a smile stained in blood-red juice.

“Together. It leaves us together. I’m leaving with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0o0 see what happens when we communicate and don't get stabby? PROGRESS, that's what we get.
> 
> (P.S the part about dynamics shifting and 'unfamiliar familiar territory' was taken from bitter berry's GORGEOUS COMMENT. serious, writing me book reports for each chapter, the angel. love ya!)
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadow and Wednesday go on a lunch date. Oh, and something something Hannibal and Will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you still reading this? Damn, I'm impressed.

_ Astoria in Queens, NYC _

 

_Damn it,_ Shadow thought, lifting his shoe up from the sidewalk. He had stepped in someone’s fresh wad of chewing gum. He audibly groaned, snapping Wednesday out of the conversation mostly being had by himself.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, stopping in his tracks. Shadow gave him an incredulous look and showed him the bottom of his shoe. Wednesday shrugged. “Well, can’t win ‘em all, huh?”

Shadow rolled his eyes, leaning against a parking meter and using a tissue from his pocket to attempt to scrape off the gum. He was mostly successful, and as he continued his task, he asked, “So why are we here again?”

“I’m making a pilgrimage,” Wednesday said as though that were the most normal thing to say. “We’re going to to the best goddamn Greek restaurant in the entire country, I always make a trip here every year. But before we do that-” he paused in his talking to hand Shadow a crumpled ball of assorted bills, “-I need you to run to that convenience store and pick up a couple essentials. I’ll grab us a table, okay?”

Shadow nodded, standing straight up again and heading towards the nearest store, pausing to watch Wednesday head into an old-fashioned looking restaurant. Shadow headed inside the cramped convenience store, nodding to the uncaring man with the thick mustache who was not pay attention behind the counter. Shadow squeezed between the narrow aisles, picking up Hershey bars with almonds and some without, some cinnamon gum, a couple beers that Wednesday had insisted on even if Shadow thought they tasted like runoff from a bath, cherry cough drops, and was debating which motor oil brand to pick up when the flicker of the TV screen caught his view. He looked up to see the cashier intently watching the screen in the corner, and Shadow turned to catch it as well.

The TV was on mute, but the picture was clear as day. There were two pictures on the screen behind an anchorwoman sitting behind a desk and speaking directly to the audience.

It was Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, and Shadow just managed to catch the end of the subtitles that were always a few sentences late:

_...been missing for over three days… _

It sent a chill down Shadow’s spine that he couldn't really explain, only that he had just talked with them three days ago, and now they were just gone. He grabbed the closest can of motor oil and made his way to the counter. As the cashier half-heartedly scanned his items while more focused on trying to read the tiny black text on the TV behind Shadow. Shadow didn’t mind, however, having zeroed in on the magazine rack to see, once again, pictures of Lecter and Graham splashed across the front page of one. He picked it up and added it to his stack, paid for the whole thing in cash, and headed out the door quickly, but not before he swore the anchorwoman winked at him the way I-Love-Lucy had. He leaned against the side of the building and read the article. Shaking his head as he finished, he bunched it up, tossed it into his bag, and walked into the restaurant armed with questions and demands for Wednesday, but suddenly kept them hidden under his tongue when he saw Wednesday laughing and joking with a woman with gray hair pulled all the way back in a bun like she had done it every day for the last few decades. He noticed Shadow’s arrival, and beckoned him over.

“Shadow, this is Helen. She’s the owner of this fine establishment.”

Helen appeared to roll her eyes good naturedly as she shook Shadow's hand, and said in a voice with deep remains of a Greek accent. “Ever the charmer, it seems.”

“Where’s your boy, leaving his poor mother to run this place all on her own?” Wednesday teased, kissing her cheek in a greeting.

“Hush your tongue,” she teased, hitting him on the shoulder lightly with a wooden spoon she held in her hand. “He is out at the market today, collecting the ingredients for tonight’s dinner special. Now sit, I will bring you the food soon enough.”

Shadow and Wednesday sat down at a booth not far from the corner, and Shadow took a moment to gather himself and look at the bouquets of lavender and lilies on the side paneling and the hostess’ desk. There was an old photograph of a young woman smiling in front of the restaurant, presumably when it opened, as the date read April 11, 1907. 

He pulled the magazine out of his bag and dropped it on the table and said in a hushed, yet pissed tone, “What the fuck is this?”

Wednesday picked up the magazine and examined the cover with genuine interest, the headline in screaming red font reading _RIPPER RAPINE?! EXCLUSIVE WITH RECENTLY RECOVERED FREDDIE LOUNDS ON HER VIEW OF THE ESCAPE/ABDUCTION OF HANNIBAL LECTER AND HIS PRIZE PATIENT_

_“Well?”_ Shadow pressed. Wednesday unwrapped a sugar packet and dumped it into his coffee.

“Not a good use of the word _rapine,”_  Wednesday noted, mirth glowing in his good eye. It took strength for Shadow to not gouge it out with a butter knife.

“That’s it? _That’s it?”_ Shadow hissed. “We were with them three fucking days ago, and now - now they’re _gone._ G-O-N-E, gone. The fucking-” realization dawned on Shadow's face and he had to hold back a gag,  “- _Chesapeake Ripper,_ holy shit, that was - that was _human meat,_ wasn’t it?”

“I told you not to eat anything, you’re _welcome,”_ Wednesday said, as though that fixed everything.

“That - that is nowhere _near_ a helpful thing to say,” Shadow said, resting his face in his hands and considering just curling up and shutting everything out. “Where - he kidnapped Will Graham, didn’t he? All that - he doesn’t deserve to be stuck there with-”

“Hey, _hey,”_   Wednesday chastised lightly, “Who said anything about a kidnapping?”

“Literally the TV, the magazines, the-”

“Horse. Shit,” Wednesday enunciated before enjoying a sip of coffee, setting the cup down and then leaning forward to keep speaking. “That’s _always_ the fuckin’ story, he was abducted, boohoo, too innocent for this world so the darkness came in and dragged him away. No one ever stops to think if he wanted that darkness, that he willingly went along with it.”

“You said that he doesn’t deserve to be stuck with-” Wednesday didn’t even say the name, just waved his hand, “ - and he’d probably fucking agree with you, but not the way you think. Relearning how to love someone is fucking _hard,_ Shadow. _You_ can understand that.”

Shadow nodded, hating that he was agreeing with him. Wednesday nodded to agree with his own point before pouring barely four drops of creamer into his coffee.

“I’m pretty pissed that they just up and left like that,” he added, a little bitterness creeping into his words. “But at hte same tame, should have fuckin’ known. Death’s only on his own side, nobody else’s.”

“Where are they?” Shadow asked, and Wednesday shrugged, not getting any further than that when Helen came bearing food on two trays, setting down gyros and servings of moussaka and an entire bowl of olives.

“Food,” she presents, no-nonsense about it, Shadow could appreciate that. He was getting real _fucking_ tired of vagueness, to be honest. He picked up his fork and stabbed a little bit of moussaka onto his fork and took a bite, smiling as soon as it hit his tongue.

“It’s delicious,” he said, and was pleased to see a satisfied smile appear on her face. Wednesday nodded, too busy dividing up the olives between the two of them.

“It should be delicious, it’s my Yaya’s recipe, ” Helen stated, pointing to the photograph from before. “She came to America, only sixteen years old, you know? Her and her father, she lost him not a year into her stay, factory fire. But she stayed here, cooking and cooking and eventually opened this place. She would say that food is how we stay connected to our roots, and cooking helps keep her memory alive.”

“I think she’d be very proud,” Shadow smiled, and she patted his shoulder.

“You taste the baklava after this, you tell me if it is perfect,” she winked before heading back into the kitchen. Shadow looked at the picture of Phoebe Carras, in front of the restaurant that still bore her name, and smiled again as he had another bite of her memory and her home.

 

_ Three Days Ago _

 

Alana marched through the heavy rain, a hand on her gun as she opened the door without knocking. It was silent, too silent. She crept through the front hall, and could see that the only light on in the house was coming from the kitchen, where there was nobody, then the door to the cellar, where a light was on and she could hear footsteps. She stood beside the top of the staircase and pulled the gun on the figure that ascended. She let out a sigh of relief after the man flinches. “Jack, oh my god, what are you-”

“Talk to her,” he said, jabbing his finger back in the direction of the cellar. “She won’t talk to me, maybe she’ll talk to you.”

“Who? Jack, where are is he? Hannibal, Will, either or, where are they?”

“I’m going to check the rest of the house,” Jack said instead of answering. “I need you to talk to her.” And then he was patting his side for his own gun, and then heading back into the darkness of the hallway. Alana took a deep breath, kept a hold on her gun, and took slow, steady steps down the stairs until she reached to bottom and felt her heart and her jaw drop.

_“Abigail,”_ she breathed out.

The girl in question looked up from her old paperback of Jane Eyre and offered the faintest hint of a smile. “Hi.”

“Oh my god,” Alana breathed again, all the air drained from her lungs. “You-”

“I’m alive,” Abigail said, absentmindedly kicking her feet against her chair. “And you want to know how and why. I -”

“You don’t have to tell me right now,” Alana said in a rush, pulling a chair over to Abigail, who moved away on instinct. “You’ve suffered a severe amount of trauma, you’re probably not remembering things clearly. You need time, you need -”

“You want to know where they are,” Abigail said plainly, finally putting down her book and giving her a look. “They’re gone.”

Despite herself, Alana pressed forward. “What - what do you mean?”

“They’re gone,” Abigail said. “That’s just it. They’re gone. We were all going to leave, but we discussed it all together. I - I can’t get between them, you know? Not like I’m worthless or anything, but - but I watched them talk to each other, look at each other and it’s - it’s terrifying. Like the world could crash and burn around them and they wouldn't care if they were looking at each other. I just - I couldn’t go. I offered to stay and tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Alana asked. Abigail shrugged.

“Will left with Hannibal. _Willingly.”_

“What? W-Where are they? Abigail, _where did they go?”_

“I - don’t _know,”_ Abigail admits, leaning back a little as Alana starts to try to come to terms with what she has just heard. “I just know that it’s somewhere they can be _together.”_

 

Jack had cased the upstairs, and found absolutely nothing and no one. The bed was neatly made, everything was perfectly clean, nothing was out of place. There was no sign of Will, either.

He made his way back downstairs, heading into the kitchen and straight for the fridge. There was the remains of a lamb dinner, along with extra packages of meat that were there purely to taunt him and the rest of the FBI. He scowled, slamming the fridge shut. He turned around and saw something laying on the counter. The only thing out of place in the entire damn house.

It was two halves of a pomegranate, picked clean of each and every seed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, there's only one chapter left! :'( But it is quite long, so it will be worth waiting for and good to end on. i'll leave you all with something to chew on: remember those menthols Persephone kept smoking, and the whole story behind mint? That's gonna come back into play ;)
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Learning how to love someone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time has come: the final chapter. I made it extra long to soothe the burn, so I hope it helps! Now, I changed a lot of season 3 details - Dr. Fell having a husband, rearranging the timelines, and you know - well, I rewrote it entirely. What is canon, I don't know her.

_Relearning to love someone is fucking hard._

 

Will doesn’t say _I love you_ for a long time. Hannibal doesn’t ask him to say it.

 

“Champagne? _Jus d’orange?”_ the flight attendant asks, pushing her cart down the aisle of the first class, smiling the whole way with a perfect plastic smile.

“Champagne, merci,” Hannibal says, accepting a flute from the flight attendant. Will shakes his head when she asks him if he’d like something, and she keeps moving.

It’s after she leaves that Will tentatively reaches out and just barely brushes his hand against Hannibal’s. And he looks up and smiles, a faint smile, but it’s there.

And that’s enough. For now, it’s just enough.

 

When they arrive in Florence, Hannibal kills Dr. Fell in his own home, makes a dinner out of him for himself and Will and then kills his husband when he arrive at home.

Will doesn’t have much of a reaction, which is slightly better than disdain, much better than panic, but just a blank reaction is almost worse. He’s not opposed to their new identities, but accepts them with a quiet grace, like slipping on a new skin and shedding the old one without much care.

Hannibal asks if he wants a ring. Will smiles like he has a secret, a way to lord a little bit of leverage over him, a way to let him thought that he may have recanted his entire old life and given it to Hannibal, he still exudes far more control over Hannibal that the man would ever care to admit. Will shakes his head.

“You have to earn that,” he says, teasing, but not in a mean-spirited way. More... _playful._ A _challenge._

Hannibal can work with a challenge. When has their relationship been anything but push and pull, give and take? This is no different; it is nothing more than a new chapter.

They move into a house not long after, into separate rooms. It’s too much to push even just a bit further yet.

Will introduces himself as Patrick Fell at their first outing into the public, and smoothly lies that the rings are in the shop. Which, in all honestly, isn’t really a lie. When Will smiles at Hannibal, there’s something behind his eyes, as opposed to the nothing he presents to everyone else.

That’s enough. For now, it’s more than enough.

 

When Hannibal drives an ice pick through Professor Soligato’s temple, Will barely holds back an eyeroll.

“That may have been impulsive,” Hannibal muses, purposefully examining his fork.

“It’s not impulsive if you decided to serve punch Romaine,” Will points out, and Hannibal decides not to argue further. Soligato starts snickering and singing in high-pitched Italian, quickly becoming an annoyance. Will doesn’t hold back an eyeroll this time, getting up out of his chair, walking over to Soligato, wrapping his napkin around the icepick, and pulling it out in one go. The professor collapsed onto his plate, crimson red blood seeping into the tablecloth and into the display, before finally dripping onto the floor.

“Technically,” Hannibal notes, sipping his drink. “You killed him.”

Will glares at him, but in a fond way. “Technically,” he snarks back, “You set all the dominoes in motion. I just tipped them over.” Then he sits back down and they continue with dinner as though there isn’t a corpse face down in his plate across the table.

“Why did you kill him?” Hannibal asks after a time.

“Because I was annoyed,” Will responds easily. “It was a necessity, not out of pleasure. You of all people know that death is necessary.”

“Perhaps.”

“If you’re asking whether I enjoyed it or not, I don’t have an answer,” Will says, as though he’s already run through this event multiple times in his memory. “Ask me when I kill someone of my own accord.

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know,” Will answers truthfully. “I just know that it’s inevitable.”

 

 

Hannibal had envisioned their first kiss as something befitting of their relationship: passionate, entrancing, _perhaps_ bloodstained.

But it wasn’t.

They had begun to settle into a steady rhythm by this time. Almost - no, not almost. It was domestic, and the day had truly not started as anything different.

It varied most days on whether Hannibal or Will would awaken first, and this time after Will had showered and thrown on a simple shirt and shorts and headed downstairs, he found that Hannibal was already downstairs. Hannibal, who was scrolling through Tattle Crime on his tablet with as he ate breakfast, his white shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“Hey,” Will said in greeting, coming into the kitchen and making his way behind the counter. Hannibal shuts off the tablet to give Will his full attention.

“Good morning.”

“You working today?” Will asks, making his way over to the coffee machine, fingers moving over the buttons.

“Yes, but not for long. I should return around two o’clock, I only need to prepare some materials for a lecture this Friday.”

“Do you want me to come?” Will asks, taking down two coffee cups from the cupboard.

“If you’d like. There’s spinach frittata on the stove for breakfast.”

“Thanks,” Will nodded, pressing a button on the machine and letting the coffee flow into the cup. “I can run down to the market today and pick up the Chambord and the Havarti.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal replied, rising from his chair with his plate and made his way to the sink to clean it. It was quiet for a few moments as they moved in tandem with each other, him cleaning his dish and Will adding exactly one teaspoon of sugar to Hannibal’s new cup of coffee. That was a part of each morning now: whoever was downstairs second, when they made a cup of coffee, they’d make a second cup for the other. A routine, the beginnings of domesticity, comforting in a way that feels oddly familiar.

“I’ll see you later,” Will says as he turns around at the same time that Hannibal does, setting the cup down on the counter. And in a movement entirely unplanned and unconsciously choreographed, _both_ of them lean into a brief kiss that lasts no more than a few seconds at most, and it doesn't register in either of them until they pull away.

They pause for a brief moment, wheels turning in their minds as they came to terms with this new step in their direction. 

When they lean in for another kiss, it’s a true sense of relief when the other leans in as well without being asked.

Then it wasn’t a step, it was a leap. Like the floodgates have suddenly opened.

The coffee starts getting cold by the time that they start to come back into focus, with Will backed up far enough to the counter that he’s now sitting on it, with Hannibal’s hand cushioning the back of his head so he doesn’t smack it on the cabinet doors when he tilts his head back. Will’s fingers are still threaded through Hannibal’s hair when they start to pull apart for air and to try to make sense of what’s happened. Hannibal doesn’t move his other hand from Will’s thigh just yet as he gathers his thoughts.

This time, they break apart, slowly nod goodbyes, and are left with all of these new thoughts to process.

When Hannibal arrives back home, after deciding that he would wait to press this relationship even a hair further than where it had abruptly broken down that morning, it had begun to rain, damning his plan to go to the gallery today, as it would surely be more crowded.

He unlocked the front door, removed his jacket and hung it on the coatrack, in such a way that the water drops would not get on the hardwood floors.

“Want one?”

Hannibal looks up to see Will pouring a glass of scotch, an eyebrow raised in a sort of offering.

“Yes, thank you,” Hannibal nods, combing his hair back from his forehead. Will pours another glass and puts the glass stopper onto the decanter before picking up the glasses and making his way over to Hannibal. 

Hannibal’s about to ask if we was able to run his errands when Will moves close enough to press one chaste kiss to Hannibal’s lips, before pulling away to ask, breath hitching a little, “Is this okay?”

Not _that_ , not _is that okay?_

No. 

_Is this okay?_

Hannibal accepts the glass, a smile pulling at the edges of his lips. “Yes. It’s alright.”

And for now, this is enough. It’s so much more than enough.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Will asks, leaning in the doorframe to Hannibal’s office in the house. Hannibal looks up from his book.

“A novel concept known as reading.”

“That - that was a terrible pun,” Will sighs, but he’s still smiling, if not bemused. “But most people don’t read a book while holding a red pen. What are you doing?”

Hannibal presents the cover of the book and Will rolls his eyes. “Are you actually reading Chilton’s book about you? You’re such a narcissist.”

“I’m simply curious to see the elementary level of psychology applied to my perceived perception of the world.”

“Is that - are you grading it?”

“I’m not a professor, Will,” Hannibal states as though, once again, everything they do is perfectly normal, when they are almost the exact clean opposite. “I’m making corrections and planning for a third party to send it back to him with my notes for the next one.”

He returns to the line he was reading when he hears an unfamiliar noise from Will. He looks up in surprise to see that Will is laughing, a hand covering his mouth to muffle his sounds as his shoulders shake and his eye close, trying to hide it before finally giving up and laughing outright. Hannibal finds that a laugh escapes from him as well.

“You’re an asshole,” Will chuckles, his head leaning back and hitting the door frame. “At least I won’t have to hide watching the Dateline special on us tomorrow. Freddie Lounds wrote it, it’s going to be terrible.”

“I’ll send notes to her as well,” Hannibal smiles, and carefully saves this moment, the first time Will has finally laughed out of pure mirth in front of him, in his mind palace to revisit later.

It becomes easier to laugh now, even as Will jokes that they're immortal now, as TV special after special hypothesizes where they are.

 

Hannibal takes Will to the Uffizi gallery, and they sit in front of the Primavera, Hannibal sketching and Will just staring ahead at the painting. His eyes trace over every single bump in the paint, and as he lets his eyes relax, the smears and dots and lines beginning to swirl together so that they almost become animated.

He lets his eyes close.

These memories that started to resurface have become slightly easier to digest over this time spent together. The memories weren’t unpleasant, quite the opposite, actually. It was usually just jarring.

Like when Will had rolled his eyes when Hannibal asked him dance but smiled and accepted anyway, and during the dance he just has a flash of memory of doing this somewhere else. Different time, different song, but still together. Other feelings, too: warm sunshine, cool earth, and the smell of a fall afternoon.

Will opens his eyes, and examines Hannibal’s drawing out of the corner of his eye. Before he has even started the rest of the drawing, Hannibal has started with Will’s face, down to even the smallest eye crease. Will turns his attention forward again, staring at the painting of the springtime, listening to the soothing noises of Hannibal’s pencil scratching against the paper.

“So,” he says quietly, secretly thinking this is probably anticlimactic. “I love you.”

The pencil makes a scratch not in rhythm with the other motions. Will turns and is blown away by the raw emotion on Hannibal’s face.

“Didn’t you know?” Will asks, even more gentle as he takes Hannibal’s free hand.

“I have never been entirely able to predict you,” Hannibal says in a voice just above a whisper. “And I do not like being wrong in any capacity. I did not-”

“You didn’t want to hope that I loved you only to be wrong,” Will finishes for him. Hannibal nods. “Well, congratulations, you’re still right. Maddeningly, you’re still always right.”

Hannibal lifts up their conjoined hands and presses a kiss to Will’s hand, who then tries to hide a soft blush that starts spreading like he’s a teenager on a first date. Then Hannibal kisses Will’s cheek once, then his lips.

“I love you,” he says. He himself, hasn’t truly said it yet. Will had known for a long time, but still feels emotional hearing Hannibal say it, admit to an emotion.

And this.

This is everything.

 

It’s three weeks later when Will pulls away from a kiss to give Hannibal an unimpressed look and tells him to stop acting like he’s a fragile little teacup and just _fucking let go already,_ I’ve - _we’ve_ waited long enough.

“Was there any other way we would have ended up?” Will murmurs as Hannibal nuzzles behind his ear and down his neck as the crisp white sheets of his bed are bunched up around them. “Any other path that doesn’t lead right back to you?”

Hannibal’s arm wraps around Will’s waist, pulling him closer and squeezing his hipbone. “Never.”

Will finds himself smiling with no fear whatsoever as teeth run over his jugular.

 

Will is truly the worst person to buy a present for, Hannibal has decided. He wears finery so very well, any and all suits with the perfect jewel-studded cufflinks to match but he always pouts and acts as those he hates them. It may very well be the opposite, he may enjoy wearing them after all, he simply enjoys playing against Hannibal even more.

“The only thing I need,” Will stated from where he was lying tangled in the sheets in the perfect pose for Hannibal’s sketching, “is for you to to not mail the FBI pictures of me because you can’t resist lording over the fact that you won, that you beat them.”

Hannibal settles on flowers.

Dozens and dozens of flowers, of every type and color. Will jokes that he’s lucky he doesn’t have allergies, but he saves at least one flower from each bunch and dries it. He keeps each dried flower in a handblown glass vase they’d picked up in an antique shop not long ago, and the vase is kept on a table in the living room. It becomes a hobby, saving as many of the flowers as possible before they finally choke, delicately caring for each and every petal, trying to preserve their glory.”

Hannibal asks why he doesn’t just keep the living ones going as long as possible. Will shrugs, his fingers tracing over a faded rose.

“Their death is inevitable,” he responds. “I just make it easier to bear.”

There’s talk of getting a dog.

It’s okay. 

Everything is starting to feel okay.

 

Apparently they have a guest for dinner tonight, a poet that Hannibal met at a party Will didn’t attend due to a migraine. And Will hates him the second he sees him for reasons he can’t quite explain. He blames it on the empathy, even if Anthony Dimond happens to resemble him in an almost frightening way. His voice is slick, hazy with an entire tray of spearmint Altoids on top of freshly brushed teeth so they nearly _glisten._ He thinks he is very clever. Will supposes he is, for Hannibal to take an interest in him.

Will hates it.

He quietly chews on his roast pork from his chair, trying to not appear like he’s glowering as Hannibal and Anthony discuss poetry, switching between Italian and English. Will’s grip on his fork tightens as Anthony looks over at his plate and that smile comes on his face again.

“Did you know that the Romans used to feed oysters to their pigs to improve their taste?” he asks. It’s an innocuous statement, but it’s coated haughty disdain, something that he prides himself on. _I’m smarter than you,_ Will hears in his tone. _And I think I’m much better than you._

Will eats another forkful of oyster stuffing, partly to decide what to say next and partly to calm himself.

“My husband,” he starts, swallowing his mouthful carefully, “has a very sophisticated palate. He’s very particular about how I taste.” Then he spears another forkful of pork and chews it. He can feel Anthony’s eyes sliding over the both of them.

“Is it that kind of party?” he asks, minty breath and innuendo so evident in his words Will could almost _taste_ them. He wanted to gag. Instead, he looked straight at Hannibal, who had the nerve to look amused when they made eye contact. Will kept his glare hard as he sipped his wine. Hannibal looked back at Anthony.

“It’s not that kind of party,” he says finally.

“A pity,” Anthony teases. Will is suddenly confronted with the urge to kill him, tinges of red in his vision. He blinks them away.

Hannibal tries to lean in for a kiss after dinner and their guest leaving, Will moves away, eyes narrowed.

“If you think you get to touch me _at_ _all_  tonight, you’re dreaming.”

Hannibal doesn’t have long to wait, Will lets him in the morning.

 

It’s no less than a week later when Will opens the door one late afternoon to Anthony, leaning on the door frame with a smarmy grin on his face.

“Is your husband home?”

“Unfortunately not,” Will says, barely keeping the dryness out of his voice.

“A shame,” Anthony sighed, reminiscent of that dinner not long ago, breathing out the same minty-fresh breath. _Too_ minty. Like when you brush really hard and floss thoroughly before the dentist so that you can nod your head and lie to them. 

_Yes, I’m always this clean, but I’m not. I’m really not._

“Anyway,” Anthony says, breaking Will’s train of thought. “I need to speak with you, if you don’t mind.”

I do, Will thought. But he let him in anyways, holding the door open for him even as he resisted the urge to slam the door in his face. He then walks over to the nearby table in the living room, picking up a bottle of merlot. “Would you like a glass?”

“Do you have to ask?” God, Will hates him. He pours him a glass and hands it to him before uncapping the decanter to pour himself a few fingers of whiskey. He needs it. “May I ask as to why you’ve come to grace us with your presence?”

Anthony smirked into his wineglass, hanging around the table near Will. “Oh, I am offering an - _arrangement,_ of sorts.” Then he finds himself distracted with Will’s prized dried flowers in their vase. “How lovely. Whose are they?”

“They’re mine,” Will answers coolly.

“A present not well maintained, it would seem, they’re all wilted.”

 _“Dried,”_ Will corrects. “They’re preserved.”

“There’s no sense keeping the faintest remnants of a flame alive,” Anthony condescends. “Out with the old, in with the new, I always say.”

“I suppose I’m just sentimental,” Will says, pouring an extra finger or two of whiskey. “But you mentioned an arrangement, what about that?”

“Oh, yes. You see, Patrick, I’m aware that you and your husband are not who you say you are.”

Will carefully sets down the decanter before raising his glass to his lips. “Oh?”

“Yes, unfortunately. I really should let the authorities know, but, _I,_ alas,” Anthony sighs, all the drama of the poetic stereotype. “I’m a bit sentimental as well, it would seem.”

“What do you mean?” Will says, barely restraining from speaking through his teeth.

“I’d truly love to help your husband... _untwist_...from his predicament,” Anthony says, but oozes is the adjective Will would use. And then, as an afterthought: “And you, as well, of course.”

“Of course.”

Anthony nods, looking over Will as he has a sip of the wine. “You know, you don’t wear a ring. Either of you.”

“They’re in the shop,” Will replies smoothly. “Being fitted.”

Anthony looks at him with a pout like when you’re trying to rile someone up by pretending you don’t believe them. “Stuck in a lie? Drowning in one?”

“Am I?” Will asks, settling down his glass and turning away, staring at his flowers and his fingers running over the bust on the table beside the vase.

_If he says one more thing, he just might-_

“My only question would be which of you decides to let go of the other’s _deadweight_ first.”

Will’s hand grips the bust and all he sees is red.

 

Hannibal comes home at around five-thirty that afternoon, thinking of what to prepare for dinner and the idea of Will saying I love you, as he is now apt to do at least twice a day. He unlocks the door, and his words of greeting die on his tongue at the scene before him.

Will, leaning against the table in the living room, top shirt button on one of his favorite shirts undone with his sleeves pushed to his elbows, a glass of whiskey held casually in one hand. A true vision, really, made even more divine by the sight of tiny crimson droplets of blood dotting his shirt and on a few of the flowers in the vase.

“Hello,” Will smiles, shifting his weight so that his foot is pressed even harder down onto Anthony Dimmond’s neck, who is choking and gasping for air, more than just a trickle of blood running down his forehead. He made a squeaking sort of noise and Will twisted his foot, effectively shutting him up and cutting off his air.

“Be quiet,” he ordered, looking down with disdain and a newfound sense of superiority. He turned his gaze back to Hannibal, a smile spreading across his face again. “I wasn’t expecting you back this early, you said you wouldn't be home until six. Oh, and we’re out of that merlot we opened recently.”

“So I see,” Hannibal replies, enjoying the beautiful scene before him, even if he has to acknowledge the remains of the shattered merlot bottle on the floor, the blood red liquid staining the Oriental carpet. Hannibal notes that he’ll need to attend to that before long. “I thought I’d come home early to prep for dinner, but I see you are occupied at the moment.”

Will laughs a little to himself, moving his foot off of Anthony, who can only weakly gasp for air. Hannibal can now see the bust sitting beside Will’s flowers stained in blood, and Anthony obviously suffering more from a simple concussion. He has marks across his body as though he’d been trampled and beat halfway to death, and Will simply saunters over to where Hannibal has paused after moving not that far away from the front door. He leans in close for a long, slow kiss, a smirk evident on his face as he pulls away. Then he makes for the kitchen to put his glass in the sink like Hannibal always asks him to do but Will rarely does. Hannibal follows Will as though he’s attracted by a magnet, Anthony forgotten for the moment.

“Why is here?” Hannibal asks, curious as always.

“Oh, he knows you’re not Dr. Fell,” Will says offhandedly. “He was proposing some sort of arrangement, I wasn’t listening.”

“That is rather apparent. Jealousy is quite a motivator, I have found.”

“Oh, you think I was _jealous_ that he was going to replace me like he _obviously thought?”_ Will asked sarcastically, a hand on his hip as he leans on the opposite side of the counter while he faces Hannibal. “No, he was _pissing me off_ because he thought he was superior to me not only in his eyes, but _yours_ as well. If I really thought that you would have left me for him, I’d have waited until you came home and then murdered you both in my blind fury.”

“I would enjoy viewing that,” Hannibal says, his mind painting that mental image, and comes back into focus as Will walks back over to his decanter on the table, putting the glass top back on it and purposefully ignoring Anthony’s futile crawl towards the door. “I thought we had putting killing each other behind us.”

“Old habits die hard,” Will says, his hands tracing over a dried violet in a vase. “But I don’t feel like killing you anymore, except on occasion when you piss me off.”

“That is a daily pastime I often partake in,” Hannibal agrees. “But you do still love me.”

“Yes,” Will says, faking exasperation but with a sweet smile still on his face. “I still love you.”

Hannibal moves away from the kitchen counter and comes to a stop in front of Will, kissing him for a few brief moments, only to pull away and nod in the direction of Anthony. “We do have to deal with him.”

Will’s smile turns from sweet to devious, and then straightened up and walked with silent footsteps towards Anthony, coming to a stop just as the poor poet reaches feebly for the door handle. He grabs the back of his hair and pulls hard just as his foot comes down hard on the back of his neck with a satisfying crack. Will lets go of his hair and moves his foot as Anthony twitched a few times in a mortal kind of paralysis, to facilitate Hannibal flipping him over and slicing through his throat to make sure that Will’s kill is complete. He drops the body back down, letting the bloody knife slip from his fingers to look up and see Will walking away, back to his flower vase.

Will is hit with another memory, this one _a spray of blood, a flick of a knife, the drops of flower petals._

He hasn’t realized he has closed his eyes as he traces his fingers over his dry flowers when Hannibal kisses him softly.

“Do you remember now?” he says in a hushed tone, a hint of pleading seeping into it. Will kisses him again and opens his eyes, smiling against his lips. He knows. They’ve both always known, he supposes.

“I remember,” he breathes out. “Didn’t I tell you that I’ll always come back to you?”

“Yes. I remember,” Hannibal murmurs, his own hand reaching down to Will’s, squeezing it and when Will looks down, he bites his lip, overcome with emotion.

Every single dry, dead, flower, is alive and blooming again, dripping with color.

_Alive._

Will turns back to kiss Hannibal again, laughing into it, and Hannibal does as well.

“I’m starving,” Will whispers, and Hannibal can’t resist kissing him just one more time.

They sit down to dinner a few hours later, meat from their latest victim whose blood is still in a bit of a trail to the front door, and a pomegranate sauce drizzled across the top. They smile at each other over glasses of wine, and they know. They believe.

 

_Sometimes all it takes is one person to believe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All good things have to end, after all. But this was truly a journey and a wild ride, and I had so much fun reading and sharing it with all of you! All of your lovely comments mean so much to me, and especially a shoutout to bitterberry, who always left me a book report on my chapter and just being an all around lovely person. Love you all, and I'll see you again with the next piece!
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me and find ways to send me love and support (and coffees!!!) on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


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